Mister Greeter
by OrangePlum
Summary: "Hello. Welcome to Hell. Name, please." US/UK
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Notes_: Weirdest request for a story I've ever received. That's all I have to say about this. No harm, no foul, no meaning to offend anybody either. This will be a short story, I guess, so only expect one or two more chapters.

**~ . ~**

_Ain't nobody gonna love you like the Devil do,  
ain't nobody gonna love you like the Devil do.  
Well, I ain't been saved, honey; what for?  
If I went to Heaven I would only be bored;  
ain't nobody gonna love you like the Devil do._

**_- _**Devil Do, Holly Golightly

**_~ . ~_**

Hell.

A place of torture, anguish, despair, and isolation. A place uniquely fit for each individual whose time ceased on the soil above and was forced to endure an eternity in the pit for their transgressions. Hell was an awful place, and it was Arthur's job to direct where these abandoned souls were to spend their wretched existences.

He loved the irony as The Greeter for this magnificently abhorrent place.

"Hello," Arthur smiled, eyes squinted in a grin as he observed the trembling individual in front of his nicely polished desk. "Welcome to Hell. Name, please."

The man, no older than his mid-thirties, no doubt, continued to wring his hands nervously at the distant echoes of pain down the hallway behind Arthur. He waited patiently for the man to gain his bearings, surely understanding how nervous anyone would be to be standing in front of some spawn of Satan's desk, awaiting certain torment.

Arthur snapped his fingers when the brunette's eyes began to wander to the paintings of flowers and rainbows on the wall. If anyone appreciated condescension, it surely was Arthur.

"Excuse me, sir. Name, please," Arthur requested, smile never wavering.

"R-Raymond Clark," the male spoke, voice like a crumpled sheet of wax paper.

Arthur nodded, kicking his heels back and sliding in front of his filing cabinet. He carefully pulled open the drawer labeled "C" and began shuffling through the manila folders. After a moment, he glanced back over his shoulder to the frightened individual. "This will take a little while. Feel free to relax. Have a chocolate."

Raymond hesitated before looking at a small bowl of candy on the edge of Arthur's desk. Arthur nodded, turning away and humming under his breath.

After locating the file he was looking for, Arthur hauled the hulking folder onto his desk with a loud _bang_, kicking the cabinet drawer closed with his foot along the way. Oh, Arthur was delighted to see Raymond partaking in his offer, noticing a discarded wrapper crinkled by the glass bowl.

"Okay, Mr. Clark. It appears you've been a very bad fellow," Arthur announced, thumbing through the paperwork. He tsked and shook his head, green eyes scanning thoroughly through what was important. "Murder for money. Well, the least you could've been was clever about it. I can't tell you how many people I see in a day who pull the same garbage and use a fire to make it appear as an accident. But what can you do?" Arthur shrugged.

By now Arthur could hear the brunette's knees clacking against the desk. He smiled. "Your punishment is the coal room on level 238, room 43B. Please sign here and stick out your hand."

"C-coal room?" Raymond stuttered, dumbly signing the paper in front of him, eyes desperately watching Arthur's movements. Arthur never understood that look, though he received it frequently enough. Perhaps it was a silent plea for help, like they thought he had the power or authority to erase their sins and correct their mistakes. He wanted to laugh; his profession was the opposite of helpful. To souls, anyway.

"Oh, yes. Don't tighten your muscles when they shove it inside. It'll only make things worse, believe me," Arthur informed, carefully dipping his seal in the hot box beside him. It sizzled with a breath that blew sparks of ash out of the box. He grabbed Raymond's hand and pressed it down, fingers holding tight when he began to scream and fought to rip his hand away from the brand. "Shh, there now. That wasn't so bad," he said, releasing when the charred flesh was deemed fit.

Raymond cradled his hand, tears in his reddened eyes. Arthur smiled. "Legal purposes," he explained. "To show that you've been through the welcome center. Have as pleasant an eternity as you can. Be sure to take a nametag."

With that, Raymond was led out of the office and down the hallway where all souls eventually met their fates. Whatever happened beyond that doorway was out of Arthur's control and interest.

He was just the welcome wagon, after all.

* * *

Arthur loved his job even though by definition alone a job was supposed to be detestable. But what could he say? He was a people person at heart.

Besides, begging and crying didn't faze him on any level. Yes, the plethora of ages, gender, race, and personalities that crossed through that hallway were too numerous to count, but Arthur just understood it as the natural balance of things. They shouldn't have been such bad people if they didn't expect the worst, he believed.

However, every now and then Arthur would come across something that was a bit out of the ordinary and pique his curiosity, and when a young blonde stepped into his office one afternoon, he knew it was just going to be one of those days.

"Hello," Arthur greeted, smiling at the withdrawn individual across the room. "Welcome to Hell. Name, please."

The boy refused to meet his gaze, as many chose to do, and instead looked around the office cautiously. He looked so out of place here in his faded jeans and brown leather jacket. Arthur mentally made a note of how scraggly these souls appeared while he sat in the best pressed suit and tie that he owned. First impressions meant a lot, or maybe Arthur was the only one who seemed to value them anymore.

"Do you want some water?" Arthur asked, noticing the boy eyeing his water cooler. Blue eyes zipped up to meet his and Arthur tilted his head at the strange emotion resting there. Regardless, he continued to smile. "You may want to take advantage of that. There most likely won't be any of that where you're going."

The blonde watched Arthur carefully, never moving from his spot by the door. He frowned, his fingers flexing anxiously at his sides. "Where am I going?" he asked slowly.

Arthur shrugged. "Let's find out. Name, please."

The boy looked away, eyes trailing the paintings of landscapes and warm colors on the walls. ". . . Are you the Devil?"

Arthur couldn't help a bark of laughter, indecent as it was. "No, lad. Do you think the Dark Prince would be doing paperwork and handshaking?" he inquired, raising an amused eyebrow.

The youth finally took a step away from the doorway, eyes still tracing the patterns of the paintings, the triangles on the wallpaper, the ribbons blowing out of the air conditioner. He stopped, though, after one step, and folded his arm over the other, eyebrows furrowing.

Arthur could see the fear there, but more curiously, he could see the confusion.

"So you're, what, a demon, then?" He chanced a glance at the desk.

Arthur continued to smile.

"Where're your horns and tail?" he asked, staring unabashed now, as if comparing and contrasting how he viewed demonic beings with what he was presented. How Arthur hated staring.

"You want clichés? Isn't it just possible to look decent without a goatee or fangs?"

"You look like Donald Trump."

"I'll take that as a compliment. Name, please."

The boy resumed his ignoring of the civil servant across the room and strolled slowly to the water cooler. Arthur watched as he filled a cup up, downed it, and repeated.

"It's cold in here," he muttered into the edge of the foam cup, blue eyes watching the bubbles spring up from the bottom of the jug. "I thought Hell was supposed to be on fire or something." His voice rang uncertain, like he was thrown off guard. Arthur sighed, placing his palms onto his desk and pushing his chair back. He snickered quietly to himself when the blonde became rigid, eyes springing to the suited individual making his way towards the cooler.

"I'm not one for the heat. I like to keep it fairly cool in here. It keeps from sweating through all of my nice clothes," Arthur said, leaning down to get a cup of water himself. The boy eyed him cautiously all the while. "Besides, not every room is hot down here. It really depends on your sentence. Now, are you going to give me your name or do I have to pull it out of you?"

It was an indifferent threat, but the impact usually worked.

"Alfred. My name is Alfred," he said, eyes guarded and apprehensive.

"Splendid. Does Alfred have a last name?" asked Arthur, taking a sip of his water.

"Jones . . ."

"_Brilliant_. What a charmingly common name. Well, Alfred Jones, what say we see what gave you a one way ticket down to the biggest regret in your life, hm?"

Arthur didn't spare Alfred another glance, throwing his cup into the trash bin and pivoting his feet, already going through his file cabinet. There were so many people with the surname Jones; it would take a great deal of effort to find this file. He really did wish all of this could be done technologically, but he trusted his own filing and eyes rather than some machine; too much room for error when he wasn't manually doing it.

"I'm not supposed to be here," Alfred spoke after a long silence, voice thick and rough around the edges.

"I highly doubt that," Arthur murmured. Alfred certainly wasn't the first person to run that line by him before. "You wouldn't be here if you weren't supposed to be here."

"I'm serious."

"As am I."

Alfred's mouth pulled into a thin line as he approached the desk, staring at Arthur's back as he flipped through folders. "There's been a mistake. You're a professional looking guy – file a complaint or something! Go get your boss or whatever you need to do and fix this. I'm not supposed to be in Hell!"

"Lower your voice, lad. You don't need to yell at me. There is never anyone to blame but yourself," said Arthur, frowning for the first time in the long while he'd been working. He could tolerate a lot of things, but being yelled at for something that wasn't his fault wasn't one of them.

Alfred stubbornly continued to glare at Hell's civil servant, holding his position, regardless of the terror residing in his eyes. Well, Arthur had to give him that at least. But pride goeth before the fall, and that sort of attitude would have this boy broken in a matter of hours.

"I like your eyes," Arthur announced, smirk pulling at his lips as he turned away from Alfred's gaze to locate his file once more. He could hear rather than see the gawk that happened.

"_What_?" Alfred asked.

"Your eyes, boy. I like them. Not a lot of souls give me that look. I like it."

Arthur began to hum quietly to himself when Alfred struggled to come up with a response to that admission. Arthur didn't know why he seemed so uncomfortable. He should learn to take a compliment when he hears one.

"Look," Alfred began, his tone changed as he spoke slowly, "Please. I know you must get this a lot, but I need you to give me a break. Listen to me – I'm not just being some desperate loser who's scared and grasping at straws over here. There's been a mistake. I didn't do anything wrong."

"You're right," Arthur responded. He heard Alfred shift behind him, probably clinging to whatever inane hope he kept. "I do get that a lot." Alfred's hope was stolen away with Arthur's words in a quiet release of air from his lungs.

If Arthur was really capable of pity he'd probably give it to this young boy. He did sound very earnest, but rules were rules, and Arthur was good at what he did. See aforementioned _loved his job_ statement. Fingers paused when he finally located Alfred's file, eyebrows furrowing and frown forming when he touched it. Arthur straightened up, holding a red folder in his hands, so thin it seemed impossible. There was a strap on the side with a latched lock.

Arthur's eyes slid towards the confused individual watching him with apprehension. "I think I do, in fact, need to give you a break, Mr. Jones."

The way Arthur spoke with such certainty made the hairs on Alfred's arms stand on end. He took another unconscious step towards the desk.

Arthur sat down, the air of playfulness dissipating when he reached into top desk drawer and pulled out a small key to unlock the folder. It wasn't often that he came across a red folder, though it wasn't unheard of. But a folder this small was concerning in its own right. He'd _never_ seen one this empty as he peered inside. There were only twelve pages present in Alfred Jones's file, and Arthur continued to frown when seeing most of it was blacked out with ink as dark as night.

"It appears you really haven't done anything wrong. Congratulations," announced Arthur after a moment of silence, green eyes observing Alfred's twitchy facial expression. Alfred remained silent; he was waiting on Arthur's every word. "However, there is no mistake, sadly for you. You are meant to be here."

Alfred's stomach dropped. "What the hell does that say?" he demanded, hissing in disdain when Arthur pulled the file out of his reach when he moved to look.

"Souls cannot read directly from their private files. Please refrain from touching, thank you. And it says that you are a wonderful boy. You do your schoolwork, are quite popular with your peers, volunteer a great deal with the community. You're making me feel guilty being in your company," Arthur joked, gaining his groove back and smiling offhandedly. Alfred's round eyes were enough to make his mirth genuine. "But aside from your saintly attitude, there is a line in your paperwork that forces me to continue with your sentencing process."

Alfred swallowed, feeling antsy.

"You made a deal, lad," Arthur reminded. If the look of alarm was anything to go by, Arthur surmised Alfred was hoping that would've been overlooked. Hardly. "Your ill brother's recovery for your soul? Oh, you truly are a saint. I can't look you in the eye." Arthur shook his head, something deep inside of him cringing away from Alfred's presence. He was starting to become uncomfortable in the proximity of somebody so . . . _good_.

"I . . . I didn't know it was real," Alfred breathlessly muttered and looking like he was about to positively vomit. "It was real, then."

"Looks that way."

Alfred's eyes darted around, resembling a trapped animal, before staring holes into the red file. "It was a coincidence. I signed that stupid book but it wasn't supposed to be real."

Arthur watched impassively as Alfred tried to reign in his building panic attack. "You signed a contract with Lucifer, asking for a miraculous recovery for your terminally ill sibling, and when it happens two weeks later you presume it a coincidence? I thought you were a bright chap, Alfred," he tutted.

"It was a joke!" Alfred screeched.

Arthur remained steadfast. "It appears to be on you, then." He sighed and closed the file, locking it carefully. There was little Arthur found disagreeable about his job, but the damning of a pure soul was at the top of that short list. It would've made him less uncomfortable if Alfred sold his soul for a more selfish reason, such as greed or lust. Arthur rather enjoyed those instances as much as the usual lot he served.

"What were you doing at a psychic?" Arthur asked, though he already knew the answer. He busied himself with the paperwork as he waited for Alfred's answer.

". . . How long," he muttered. "I wanted to see how long Mattie had."

Arthur put the pieces together easily. He obviously hadn't liked the answer he was given, and in an act of desperation signed a pact from the Book of the Damned. Where the psychic acquired that book was beyond him. The boys running this joint only released ten of those things globally.

Really now. Humans should've known better than to sign that blasted book. If a deal was too good to be true, it probably was.

"You, Alfred Jones, do not deserve to be here. Please sign here and stick out your hand," Arthur said, void of any expression when he beckoned Alfred, needing to be as professional as he could. He prided himself on his work after all.

"I don't want to sign anything else," Alfred said, voice cracking as his eyes misted over.

"It's not optional this time. Your hand, please." When Arthur saw that Alfred wasn't going to move, he shot his arm out like a coiled snake and snatched Alfred's, quickly dipping his brand in his fire box and holding tight when the smell of burnt flesh reached his nose.

Alfred hollered, writhing when his skin started sizzling. Arthur allowed him to snatch his hand away, the process only a matter of seconds before the desired result. Alfred breathed heavily through his nose, eyes wide and forehead sweaty as he looked at the mark on the back of his hand with a wave of nausea.

"Sign, please," Arthur repeated, sliding a paper across the desk. He watched as Alfred reluctantly signed, his branded hand shaking against the sheet. It took him a few attempts to keep the pen steady, and Arthur hardly missed the looks he was shooting him, perhaps for mercy of some sort. How much Arthur wished he was capable of mercy.

"_Oh,_ _God_," Alfred breathed on a miserable moan of disbelief when observing his signature below him. Arthur silently wondered if Alfred regretted his decision to save his brother now or not.

"Do not curse in here." Alfred blinked down at Arthur with a pause. "Your punishment will be the black room on level 6, room 6C. Be sure to take a nametag, though I do not believe it's necessary where you're directed."

Arthur saw the twitch in Alfred's form when he mentioned his sentence, but it was what it was. Alfred had free will on earth; no one forced him to trade his soul for his brother's. It was just an unfortunate turn of events that Alfred had been hit by a drunk driver three months later. Not quite the deal of the century, but still.

It was then that something caught Arthur's eye and he sat up, halting Alfred's movements when the doors behind him were opened by two of the escorts. Alfred jolted at Arthur's sudden movement, but Arthur merely held out his hand with a tight expression.

"You cannot take that past this point, I'm afraid."

Alfred gave a strange look before he followed Arthur's vision. If anything, his posture broke even more when he fingered the silver cross around his neck. It looked like the action pained him in its own right as he removed it and gave it to Arthur. When it touched his skin Arthur felt ill, but he nodded anyway and allowed Alfred to leave.

With one last look from a hopeless man, Alfred was led out of his office and down the hallway by two bulky figures whose jobs were only to guide the lost souls to their proper destinations. When the door clicked shut Arthur stood from his chair and placed the file back with the rest.

And if Arthur took a moment to stick his hand into his branding box until the pain of melting skin burned away the queasiness from where the cross made contact, well then that was just fine with him.

He threw the object in his wastebasket as the next soul was led in and he smiled despite the sweat he adjourned on his pale, wincing face.

"Hello. Welcome to Hell. Name, please."


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Notes: _Let me just say that I'm pleasantly surprised with how much attention this story has received. The wonderful Snefrev on tumblr drew a fantastic picture for this, which I put up as the cover for this (unless they would like me to take it down), but my cropping skills are atrocious so it's cut off, and Highinthe80s wrote a song for this story, which is also on my tumblr. So, very exciting all in all. Lol

Enjoy another update, though this one is a little more graphic.

_~ . ~_

_Ain't nobody gonna love you like the Devil do;  
ain't nobody gonna love you like the Devil do.  
Well, I've been to church, and I declare,  
that there ain't nothin' more to learn in there.  
Ain't nobody gonna love you like the Devil do._

- Devil Do, Holly Golightly

_~ . ~_

Time was strange in Hell, in the sense that there wasn't any. It was all an illusion. After all, what was the point with telling time when you couldn't be late?

Late for eternal, unending damnation? Arthur wanted to laugh.

However, despite the lack of time in Hell, Arthur's wall clock only possessing the tick-ticking of a second hand promenading around a white circle, Arthur did like to set himself on a schedule of shifts. He did enjoy spending time out and about out of his claustrophobic little office, too, you know. And although he was the only Greeter for Hell, he did take these breaks frequently. What was the rush? He would just let the coming souls torture themselves with their own anxiety waiting for what was beyond his office door.

So when the clock chimed zero, Arthur gathered his coat with a smile and latched his door. He moved to lock the filing cabinet and hesitated when glancing down at his wastebasket below, nothing but the abandoned silver cross staring back at him.

He paused.

Thirty-six days of time above ground had passed since Alfred Jones ventured through these halls, red file causing Arthur a stutter in his weekly activities. Yes, Arthur encountered dozens upon hundreds of red files since becoming The Greeter, but Alfred's noble action itched at him in a very irritating way. He couldn't dump that putrid cross because of this incessant itching that bothered him at the most inopportune times.

After all, he was supposed to have his mind on his work! How else would he remain the best in his field, albeit the only one in his field?

Perhaps he was getting soft.

"As a marshmallow," Arthur grinned, shaking his head and proceeding to lock the cabinet. He draped his jacket over the bend of his elbow, switched the lights off, and exited the room. He was greeted with a symphony of wails around the clacking of his polished shoes on marble floor. It sounded like torment. It sounded like a song.

Arthur shut his eyes briefly and let his fingers dance through the air for a moment, caught up in this melody as much as a privileged family enjoyed the deep throated howls of music at the opera.

Before becoming The Greeter, Arthur did admit that he planned to apply for a position in the Sentencing Ward; however, he had an unnatural aversion to getting dirty, and he knew blood stained clothing (among other things). So, he picked a cleaner job with the same amount of pleasure gained from mental torture, leaving the physical to the boys upstairs.

"Good evening, Arthur," his associate said as she passed, smiling lipstick coated lips in his direction. He smiled back at her with a toothy leer.

"Good evening, Melissa. See you tomorrow evening."

She nodded and continued on her way, arms full of labels needing to be retouched for the thousands upon millions of doors in this facility. At the end of the hallway there was a golden elevator, buttons miles high up the wall. Beside them was a ladder, in case a soul needed to get to a particularly high floor. Arthur, however, resided in the basement of the building; the level where the paperwork took place. Only pencil pushers came down here, whereas everything above the lobby was for souls.

He stepped in the elevator, reveling at the thought that screams could permeate down to his floor from such heights. There was a soul escort waiting in the corner of the small cube, eyes black and face brooding. Arthur grinned at him.

"Evening, old chap. Are you having a terrible day?"

The attendant didn't respond, never did when Arthur inquired how his endless day was going. Still, Arthur was all about the appearance of manners and he would keep asking for all of eternity until he did procure an answer. He pressed the lobby button and waited, the box starting its ascent. His nose crinkled when hearing the low lull of music in the lift, wondering why all lifts had such terrible piano solo music. It wasn't like _he_ came to work to be tortured.

Arthur stumbled when the contraption halted abruptly, lights flickering as if having a seizure. He caught himself, head tilted back to see the flashes of light and dark like lightening in the silk upholstered elevator, ceiling never visible from the floor.

"Having power troubles," rumbled the attendant offhandedly. Arthur blinked at him, considering this, before smiling.

"That's dreadful. Should I file a complaint?"

The attendant sighed through his nose and remained silent. Oh, Arthur hated to say that his best friend was such a Gloomy Gus; he could barely get a word out of him, let alone his name.

When the elevator ceased it's concerning groaning and began moving once more, Arthur paused when the last flickers of darkness stopped as well. And when the lobby door opened and a few individuals decided to enter, one climbing up the ladder by the buttons, Arthur mentally cursed and rolled his eyes, changing his mind at the last moment.

"Excuse me, sir," Arthur said pleasantly, smiling at the man climbing the ladder. He glanced down at Arthur as he said, "Would you be a dear and hit level six before scaling that wall? I'm afraid my hands are full at the moment."

The man nodded and retreated four prongs, tapping the button at Arthur's eyelevel before resuming his task of climbing. The elevator doors shut and Arthur turned back with raised eyebrows and another smile towards the attendant. "I am being fickle, aren't I? But I'd like to see something before checking out this evening."

The attendant said nothing and Arthur felt his eyes wrinkling around the edges in amusement. His best friend was such a hoot.

In no time the lift chimed and Arthur exited the cube, making his way down the doors upon doors of regretting souls. It would take a while to find Alfred's room, for every room number had a corresponding letter with it. The entire alphabet was used to accommodate the plethora of souls that came through, and Alfred's room was 6C.

"The boy wants to give me a hernia," Arthur muttered, sharp green eyes scanning the numbers on the walls. He caught eyes with a woman through the glass window of her door, her eyes dripping wet and face contorted in an ugly manner. He smiled and waved, continuing past her like a stranger on the street would.

"6A, 6B, 6C. Well, that was an adventure," Arthur announced, standing in front of a metal slab of black steel, contrary to the other doors, all coated gray. The door had no window on it, differing to most. Above the room number was a plaque scrawled with black print: Black Room. Indeed it was. With a deep breath, Arthur rapped his knuckles twice against the door and waited. He knew he would receive no response, but manners were manners.

"Alfred, lad, you have a visitor," Arthur said, removing his all-purpose key from his coat pocket. There were eight individuals in the building who possessed one, and Arthur would've been lying if he didn't feel quite an exhilarating authority when holding it. No room was out of his reach.

The lock rolled and clicked and then Arthur was in utter blackness. There was no sound or movement from inside, and Arthur bobbed his head to the side in understanding at that. Over a month's time that Alfred had been used to passed. Who knew what he had experienced since then.

Arthur shut the door and felt along the wall. "I'm going to turn some lights on, but I don't want you to go blind while I'm here. That's not my place to enact torment. I'm going to get you some glasses, alright?" He kept his voice pleasant, so not to spook the boy. He wondered briefly if Alfred remembered him at all by this point.

He certainly remembered Alfred.

Arthur's fingers brushed up against something wet on a metal table, an object falling over the side with a clang. He retracted his hand and grimaced when it came back coated in something. Wonderful.

Eventually, with some ungraceful stumbling around, Arthur did locate some goggles and a light switch. He found Alfred sitting in a chair somewhere in the room, and the boy flinched when Arthur's fingers lightly touched his hair. A mewl was Arthur's greeting and he patted Alfred gently, running his fingers through matted locks to soothe him enough to place the glasses over his eyes.

"There, there. They're shaded. Now, I'm going to turn the lights on, so this might sting a little, even with those on. I don't know how often they let you see the light in here, but one can't be too careful," Arthur said, venturing over towards the left side of the room and feeling around for the switch once more. He found it and counted to three, pulling it up and squinted when met with incandescent light that bombarded his vision.

Alfred groaned loudly, dipping his head down so his chin met his chest, twitching every now and then while he sucked a quick breath through his nose. The goggles must not have been effective enough.

"Terribly sorry, lad. I can't help it, though. It will only be for a few moments," reassured Arthur, raising his eyebrows when observing the blonde across from him.

There was a tarp on the ground, most likely recently changed, considering the amount of stains on it were minimal. Off to the side were two metal carts with various tools on it. Arthur noticed a tray used for collecting blood so it didn't drip everywhere, swiping his tongue over his teeth in disapproval when he realized that that was where his hand had been.

Arthur's eyes traced Alfred's figure, the lone person in the room, sitting in a wooden chair with a, what appeared to be white once, cloth gagging his mouth, sweat and grime coating his tanned flesh. His previously golden hair looked dirty and almost brown, and Arthur gave another sigh of displeasure when he noticed his hand was there, too. He needed to wash thoroughly tonight.

Alfred was devoid of a shirt, but there was a black band wrapped around his midsection that helped to hold him to the chair, resting just above the hem of his jeans and right below his pectorals. He approached Alfred slowly and stood in front of the shivering boy with a frown, lowering his eyelids.

"That must hurt more than the light, I presume."

Alfred simply continued to shiver, head never rising from his chest.

"I would unlatch it for you, but I don't wish to be where you're sitting anymore. I'm afraid you'll just have to bear with the needles for now until they remove it."

Arthur knew the Black Room associates fancied needlework quite a bit; sewing skin into quilts, perforating harsh areas like bizarre acupuncture, skewering. The list went on, though Arthur hardly saw reason for the obsession with it. Alfred, nonetheless, was sporting some of the clothing here. Thick, Velcro-like straps smooth on one side but prickled with needles on the other. It was like a form-fitting Iron Maiden.

_Bringing back the classics_, Arthur wanted to snort.

"Feel thrilled! Most souls don't get visitors," Arthur said amiably, bending down to grasp Alfred's chin and remove the gag. Alfred let out a choked breath, gasping for air and leaning his cheek into Arthur's palm, most likely clinging for some form of human contact after all this time. Well, human-esque.

Blue eyes squinted at him through the shades and Alfred scowled, the indignation there marring his once innocent face. "Yeah, I'm real fuckin' grateful," he mumbled, voice raw and hoarse.

Arthur smiled at him, hand rubbing soothing patterns over his temple, his sideburn. "You should be."

Alfred watched Arthur suspiciously, shaking breaths wracking his form, each no doubt hurting like a bitch with that band around his midsection. Every now and then a whine would leave his lips and Arthur clicked his tongue against his teeth distastefully. The sound wasn't relatively as satisfying coming from Alfred's mouth, a soul of pure, well, purity.

"Do you remember me?" Arthur inquired quietly, genuinely curious as his eyes searched Alfred's. Alfred struggled to pull in air, the task of focusing his vision appearing to be a difficult task in its own right when under this much physical agitation. For a minute Arthur thought Alfred's time in the Black Room had completely faded his memory of his brief period in the greeting office, then Alfred surprised him and furrowed his brow.

"The guy – the guy with the water cooler," he affirmed, his teeth painted a pinkish hue from the lingering blood in his spit.

Arthur grinned. "Bravo. I commend your mental ability to keep me in mind after all this time."

"What do you want?" Alfred breathed, breath hitching with another low moan of discomfort, his shoulders trembling. Arthur could see the small amount of hope pooling behind his eyes, grasping on to the concept that perhaps Arthur had come to declare there was a mistake in the paperwork; that this was all just a nightmare that he could be released from.

Oh, Arthur grew tired of hope. Hope was not something useful in a place like this.

"You may find this amusing –" Arthur paused when Alfred shot him a weak glare. "Or maybe you won't. I'm not even sure myself why I'm here. I suppose just to check in on you; see how you're fairing. I don't come across many souls who are willing to sacrifice themselves for an unselfish cause. It crossed my mind that you may react differently to your sentencing than the others, who really have all the reason in the world to be here."

Arthur let Alfred alone as his pain-addled mind tried to compute what he had just heard. He was intrigued at how well he could see the gears shifting in Alfred's head with mere facial expressions alone. Arthur saw the exact moment when it clicked.

"Guinea pig . . ."

Arthur slowly shook his head. "No. That's not quite right. To assume I see you as a guinea pig would imply that I somehow lured you to sign your soul away. I did no such thing, I'll have you know. Call it unhindered curiosity. You're one of a kind, lad."

Down the hall a long cry rang out, echoing even into this closed off room. Alfred winced, eyes moving to the door. Arthur brushed a strand of hair that was poking his eye out of the way when Alfred's eyes became misty.

"Sure doesn't feel like that," he choked, shutting his eyes and taking another shaking breath.

"Shh, now. Don't cry," Arthur said, though he knew he was terrible at soothing people when he couldn't find it in him to be genuine.

"I make noises like that," Alfred gasped, muscles in his neck straining when moving too much in the band. "I don't – I get this different, but I hurt like them. It hurts like everyone else."

Arthur awkwardly shifted, wiping the trailing tears from Alfred's cheeks with his thumbs. Pushing the goggles up into his hair when Alfred closed his eyes, his fingers smudged the filth on his face.

"That is not true. You hurt worse than them," Arthur said. And even though the light must've stung like acid, building a headache in Alfred's skull, he looked at Arthur in bewilderment.

Arthur smiled softly. "You're selfless and you fascinate me, Alfred Jones."

Arthur marveled when Alfred managed to cry harder.

* * *

The funny thing about Hell was that it was always evening. There, of course, wasn't a sun to supply light, so it was impossible to have an absence of something rise and set. However, there was always a red glow in the sky, much like twilight on the earth, painting the buildings and surroundings in a smolder that resembled a low sunset. So, when Arthur would come visit Alfred in the Black Room periodically, Alfred would never understand the greeting.

"What time is it?" Alfred asked, sweat lining his forehead while he stared at Arthur, who was leaning against the wall, fiddling with his tie. He smiled languidly, raising an eyebrow at the boy in the center of the room.

"It's evening," Arthur commented.

Alfred attempted to wet his dried lips, trying to comprehend. "Y-you said yesterday that you were coming here before work when you left." Alfred's voice was confused and rough. Arthur suspected that he had been screaming recently since he left to go home last evening.

"I've told you this three times, lad. Are you starting to forget my words?" Arthur asked, his tone light and airy, contrary to Alfred's. It had been a week and a half, if Arthur was keeping track right, that he started his occasional routine of visiting Alfred when the mood struck him. They were brief visits and they talked about nothing in particular, Arthur's mind on much bigger things such as Alfred's life above and what made his mind tick, and Alfred, well, Alfred's was usually on not throwing up. But Arthur had to reluctantly admit that these visits were starting to become . . . enjoyable. Or, rather, the closest thing Arthur could feel to enjoyment aside from guiding those to torment and misery.

"No. It just doesn't make sense to me," Alfred said around the lump in his throat. His goggles kept sliding to the end of his nose, causing Arthur to grin and push them back up.

"It doesn't have to. It just is."

"Doesn't that – _shit_. _God_, son of a –" Alfred said, gritting his teeth when he pulled his arm too suddenly, a splash of crimson hitting the tarp. Arthur flinched, hating whenever Alfred spoke the G-word, but choosing to remain silent until Alfred stopped his writhing. "Doesn't that make it hard to sleep?" he finished, winded.

"I don't sleep, Alfred. One of the joys of being me," Arthur said, strolling over to the metal table and wringing a rag in the bucket of water and bringing it back to wipe up Alfred's arm. He gingerly dabbed at the wound there, steel wool woven in intricate patterns that were fascinating in a macabre sort of way.

"Then why do you go home?" Alfred asked, eyes studying Arthur's movements.

"To develop a sense of normalcy, of course!" Arthur said, eyes bright as they met disapproving blue. He remained thrilled that Alfred's eyes still possessed that look that he had back on his first day in Hell. It was a little foggy, much like a television with too much static, but the idea was still the same.

Alfred snorted. "You can never be normal."

Arthur mimicked pulling a knife from his side. "Ouch. You wound me, boy." When the cloth was soaked red, Arthur ventured back to the bucket to wash it off. "I'd like to think if I pretend hard enough I will be one day. But that is an aspiration to never be obtained."

"Is that why – why you act so phony?" Alfred asked, causing Arthur to hesitate. His smile dropped and he shifted his torso to watch Alfred as he struggled to stay upright in the chair without disturbing his hurts.

"I am not phony."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Please. You're making it worse when you s-smile like that or say apologies that you don't mean. Half the shit you do is fake."

Arthur pursed his lips, tapping his shoe against the linoleum in the thrum of a heartbeat. If Alfred thought he had struck a nerve it was gone when Arthur smiled. "Do not mistake my intrigue in you souls with kindness. I merely do those things to make a soul's acceptance of its fate that much faster. Besides, I have no choice. I'm a gentleman, after all."

"Gentleman, huh?" Alfred mumbled under a light exhale. He stared at his stained, worn-down sneakers while Arthur shuffled about.

"Oh, this water is an atrocity," Arthur complained abruptly.

"They don't change it," Alfred explained, nose crinkling at the thought of his first infection from contact with that filthy liquid. _Why change it anyway_? Alfred wondered. Just another way to inflict him with pain. That was why he was here, wasn't it?

"Disgusting. That is simply pure laziness."

Alfred blinked, carrying his vision to his companion, who proceeded to dump the thick, browned jelly-like substance into a large can filled with discarded objects no longer useable. He felt the once familiar pull of skin around his eyes and nose, indicating shock. He hadn't felt shocked by anything in this room for weeks.

Arthur filled the tub up with clean water from a hose connected to the wall, then moved to kneel beside Alfred's chair, rag scrubbing at the grime on his skin.

"This is repulsing," he criticized when dipping the cloth back into the water, frown prevalent when seeing how quickly the water changed color.

"Wh-what are you doing?" Alfred asked in awe.

"Getting rid of this rubbish."

"_Why_?"

Arthur regarded him as if he were a moron. "Because it's disgusting," he stated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Alfred briefly pondered if this . . . whatever he was had OCD.

"Jesus Christ, you're supposed to be hurting me, not helping me!" he shrieked, hating how this was much worse than having steel wool braided into his skin like nauseating body art. Arthur said it wasn't kindness but it sure felt that way. Alfred didn't want kindness. Kindness brought with it its ugly family; yearning, hope, mercy, unbearable agony when gone unfulfilled.

Arthur flinched violently, his nails digging into the sensitive flesh of Alfred's arm, causing him to arch his back with a gasp. Green eyes hardened in a serious gaze, hand halting its movements. "Please refrain from cursing. I've ask you many times and it is starting to become rude."

Alfred sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and glared back. "Go to Hell."

Arthur grinned a grin that could rival the Cheshire Cat, eyes narrowing into little crescent moons. "Already there, love, and I must say that I'm having a ball."

Alfred didn't say anymore, just silently letting Arthur's nimble hands scrub him clean. Every touch, every attentive stroke, every fleck of grime leaving him felt like Heaven's breath. He would take what sympathy he could get when he could get it, and right now a semi-sponge bath from a careless servant of Hell was like winning the lottery. And all the while, in the back of his mind, he imagined how happy and _healthy_ his brother was.

He thought about what he had given up so that his brother could live.

* * *

"Hello. Welcome to Hell. Name, please."

"L-L-L –"

"Now, now. Nothing to worry about. Well, nothing while in this room. What is your name?" Arthur coaxed, eyeing the short woman quivering in front of his desk. She appeared ready to faint. Arthur ran his finger over the corner of his pristine desk that had cost him an arm and a leg to get while he waited. Luckily not his arm or leg, he thought with a chuckle.

Arthur blinked when just noticing a darkening of his carpet around her ankles and grimaced with a _tsk_. He loathed when their bladders gave out.

"Name, please," he rushed.

"L-Lucy Naka-Nak-Nakamura," the girl hiccupped, burying her face in her hands and starting to wail uncontrollably. Arthur pursed his lips, reeling back slightly when she collapsed on the floor to her knees.

"Yes, I'm very sorry for your – Oh, never mind. Let me locate your file. Feel free to partake in a candy," said Arthur, going through his filing cabinet and sighing with an eye-roll at each high pitched screech. In no time, her file was in hand, and Arthur perused it just as quickly.

"Miss Nakamura. Lucy, dear, would you please get off the floor. I need you to be a good lass and fill out some paperwork."

As Lucy continued to pay no attention to Arthur's polite requests, causing a migraine to form at the base of his skull, a tap-tapping was at his door, someone's head poking in. The blonde male Arthur knew, and didn't particularly care for, was Francis, his eyebrows raising at the messy spectacle at Arthur's feet.

"Am I interrupting something?" he asked innocently.

"What do you want?" Arthur asked, words clipped. His patience dried up when his perfectly quaint office started reeking of asparagus.

Francis had the audacity to grin and beckon Arthur with a flick of his wrist. "I have a personal matter to discuss with you."

"Can't it wait?"

Francis gave a crooked smile to the woman on the floor, obviously past the point of caring about dignity when she pleaded, "I'm sorry, sorry. I don't want to be here. I'll do anything you want, just _please_."

"Why? Is this urgent?"

Arthur blew a terse breath from his nostrils and shut the file on his desk, standing briskly and placing it in a drawer before locking it. As he stepped around the desk to move towards Francis, Lucy latched onto his leg and he bristled, her fingers playing rather high on his inner thigh.

"_Anything_," she sobbed, dark eyes full of fear and desperation. He understood her insinuation when she pressed her body to his leg. Predictable lot, damned souls were.

Arthur put on his plastic smile and plied her fingers from his nice suit, stepping over the urine stain on his once red carpet. "I apologize for this inconvenience, Miss Nakamura. I won't be but a moment. I hope you forgive me. Perhaps when I return you could be collected enough to finish your sentencing swimmingly, hm?"

When the door clicked shut Arthur spun on the elder male, eyes intent and irritated. "I'm very busy. What personal matter could not wait until I leave?"

Francis laughed. "Straight to the point, aren't you? Where is your –"

"_Francis_," he hissed testily. Francis sighed and brushed a strand of silken hair from his face, eyes gazing uncomfortably at the welcome sign above Arthur's door.

"A little birdy told me that you were visiting the upper levels."

Arthur paused, annoyance deflating as his posture took on a more defensive stance. He smiled when Francis looked disapprovingly at him. "Who told you that?"

"Are you?"

Arthur didn't even know where to begin with where Francis could've heard something foolish like that. He worked in the lobby with all of those other detestable oafs who couldn't deal with souls on a face-to-face level. Probably that Ivan galute saw him meandering the sixth floor where he resided. Lucifer knows it wasn't his best friend gossiping about him, though he was known to be a chatterbox.

"And if I was?"

Francis looked as if he was expecting it to be a lie, but with Arthur's tone that beckoned him to threaten him, his expression shifted to consternation. "Arthur, I don't need to tell someone like you what could happen if word gets out to the wrong individuals. You aren't supposed to have any contact with the souls after they leave your office," Francis warned.

Arthur smirked. "I have a key that says otherwise."

"You have a _key _because you have access to their files," corrected the blonde. Arthur scoffed, indignant an action as it was.

"What? Did you come all the way down here to tattle on me?" Arthur asked, though the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end when thinking of what would happen if he were to do so. He didn't need an incident like last time . . .

Francis's shoulders slumped, rubbing a hand over his mouth and shutting his eyes briefly. "I don't want to. I just wanted to make it clear . . ."

He needn't say anymore, for Arthur knew the implication.

"Right. I see what you're saying. Now, if you don't mind, I have a soul to damn rolling about my carpet that I'd like out of my office in the next ten seconds."

Francis looked like he wanted to protest but then shooed Arthur away, sighing heavily for drama alone. Arthur nodded his goodbye and turned the knob, met with more screams as he entered inside.

He smiled when he continued his day, seeing hundreds of faces regarding him with contempt and fear. Souls came and went, pleaded and cursed, but this only made Arthur's body buzz with more anticipation. He did not get another red file since Alfred, nor had he seen the same look in another soul's eyes since that boy had passed through his door.

He glanced at the black phone mounted on his wall, only one number to dial if anything were to go wrong. His palms started to sweat just thinking about getting a ring from that phone, knowing what the implications were. With Francis's warning in the back of his mind, Arthur departed that evening and visited the sixth floor.

And he continued to gladly go the next day and the next and the next just for spite.


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Notes:_ Hopefully I can wrap this story up soon. A little more character development and yay, Arthur feels things. I also came across a quote that reminded me of how I write him in this very much.

Enjoy.

_~ . ~_

_I have a habit of falling in love with souls who have yet to_

_be at peace with their bodies, their minds, their weaknesses._

_I try to build them, to find the parts of them that are missing in me._

_I end up with holes in my chest._

- Farah Gabdon

_~ . ~_

"Can you do me a favor?"

Arthur withheld the sigh he wanted to express, rolling up his shirt sleeves and sorting through the rusted implements on the metal carts. Disgusting. He found this all very distasteful. But, like the trooper that he was, he humored this question that was asked for the past two weeks every visit he took to room 6C.

"What do you need, mate?" Arthur asked, eyes narrowed in a lazy smile at the boy on the wooden chair. Alfred was trying his best to follow Arthur's movements, but his own vision was starting to fog around the edges. His Adam's Apple bobbed when he swallowed twice in an attempt to clear his throat.

"My brother . . . I want to see my brother," Alfred spoke, words rough with desperation, his blue eyes seeking out the green ones staring back.

"I already told you that you cannot."

"_Please_."

Arthur busied himself with arranging the tools in size, biggest to smallest. "I wouldn't even know how to go about doing such a thing. You're just being delirious, lad. Whenever they feel like giving you a break – Well, that may not happen. I doubt you'll have that right frame of mind back." Arthur peered over his shoulder and saw Alfred's shoulders sag. There was an awkward beet of silence in which Arthur almost mistook the heavy pull of emotion in his gut as guilt. Oh my, what a humorous turn of events that would be. "Buck up."

"I just need –"

"I already said that I canno–"

"Can you just tell me how he is? Give me an update?" Alfred pleaded, and Arthur really did hesitate this time. Alfred's shallow breathing was the only semblance of rhythm in the room that Arthur focused on as he pursed his lips in thought.

"Are you saying you want me to go observe your brother?"

Alfred swallowed again, slowly nodding.

The feeling slithering up Arthur's arms gave him Gooseflesh, an uncomfortable smile spreading his thin lips. He surmised that he must've looked quite manic, but what did he really care what one tormented soul thought of him? Arthur chuckled, twirling a blade in his hands, studying it.

"I don't have clearance to venture up there. I apologize," he informed, disliking the entire idea of walking around with the living. Arthur did not house many fears, but the soil above frightened him; not enough familiarity or predictability. He did not leave the comfort of his office.

"But –"

"I can't help you," Arthur said, voice void of emotion, but the hard gaze he sent towards the blonde made Alfred flinch. He was not going to humor this conversation. He didn't have it in him. "Do not ask me again."

The talking died with the unspoken warning, Arthur resuming his task of organizing. Every now and then he would hear a noise of protest or Alfred's sneakers shuffling on the tarp, but nothing more. When the carts appeared satisfactory enough, Arthur turned around and smiled at Alfred.

"You are being quite the rude host, Alfred. When you are so lucky to have a guest, you should provide fodder for conversation," Arthur said, rinsing his hands of the blood he'd just touched on the tools. Alfred managed a gnarled scowl that made Arthur beam. Why, if he had a heart, he was sure it would be buoyed in the emotion rising there in his chest cavity.

"Do me a favor," Alfred repeated stubbornly.

Arthur hummed lightly under his breath, picking up his suit jacket from the corner where he'd folded it. He ran his fingers over the hem, his eyes darting to Alfred's quivering form. It was Iron Maiden day once more.

"Alright. I do not mind being the Good Samaritan every now and then. If you will supply me with a topic, I will surely do you a favor – Ah-ah, just not the one you're probably requesting." He ignored Alfred's urge to argue against that, and gingerly draped his jacket over Alfred's form. He tucked him in with it, not even bothering if it would be stained at the moment. He could surely worry about that later.

Blue eyes darted in stunned curiosity to Arthur's face leaning over him. "You seem cold. I cannot have a discussion with you if every word is stuttered out by frozen lips."

Alfred outwardly stared, confusion pooling behind his gaze. Arthur's smile pulled a bit tighter, somewhat strained. He hated staring, particularly when he could see that Alfred was drawing a very far from accurate conclusion from this action. What did he tell him about mistaking intrigue for kindness?

"W-what do you want to talk about?" Alfred asked after a while, the creases of pain resuming around his eyes in a wince, the discomfort of the band around his abdomen becoming prevalent once more. Arthur patted Alfred's cheek in good-nature and stood to his full height. Really, he should start bringing a chair with him on his visits. Standing was starting to become a nuisance.

"Well, we may discuss your brother if you wish. You seem hell bent on trying to reconnect with him even after death," Arthur said, that itching of interest in Alfred's life when he was alive being invoked. He wanted to understand what made someone as good as Alfred tick. Considering what a large part his brother played, he might as well delve into that and see what came out.

Arthur raised an eyebrow when seeing Alfred perk up minutely in his chair, a look of watered down excitement escaping from his eyes. He looked at Arthur, pausing until he saw the encouraging smile.

"Matt – Matt's great . . ."

"Oh, how so?" Arthur dragged the sad excuse for a stool that was usually used to hold the blood pan from against the metal carts, dusting it off briefly with his fingers and bringing it in front of Alfred. He crossed his leg over the other, hands folded against his ankle. Arthur supposed he resembled a child waiting for a story, but that was somewhat what this was. He wanted to indulge in Alfred's thoughts, his opinions, his pleasures, his sorrows.

"He's the only guy I know who," Alfred broke off into a cough, grimacing and spitting a bloody wad on the tarp. "He's tough . . . I didn't see him cry or scream or anything when he got sick. He just took it."

"Is that why you attempt to do the same here?"

Alfred frowned, body still trembling even under the added warmth of the jacket. "I don't do that," he admitted quietly, almost as if ashamed. His eyes lowered to examine Arthur's neatly polished shoe. "I scream and cry all the time in here."

"Entirely different circumstances, lad. Don't feel too poorly," Arthur soothed, and he distantly wondered if it was a convincing gesture. When Alfred looked up at him, he knew he was partially correct.

"Before the infection Matt liked to play h-hockey. He was really good, too. I'd say he was better at hockey than I was at baseball."

"You played baseball?" Arthur asked. Alfred slowly nodded, appearing a tad bit guarded. Arthur didn't know why. It wasn't like he was prodding for anything personal. "What position?"

"Pitcher."

"Marvelous. I'm sure your parents were proud. That is a stressful position in the game, I have been told," Arthur smiled, fingers tapping a senseless rhythm against his ankle. He blinked when Alfred's lips pulled down in a frown, teeth digging into his lip.

"Nah . . . After Matt got sick, they stopped going to my games. Kinda – Kinda pissed me off, actually," he laughed, though it sounded suspiciously close to a dry sob. It was bitter and guilty and Arthur cocked his head to the side when observing every small facial twitch. "I ignored Matt for a while 'cause I guess I felt neglected or something. Then he got real bad and I . . ." Alfred sucked in a breath between his teeth and shut his eyes tightly. The way his body rocked in the chair was concerning enough on its own.

Arthur's eyes trailed after the drop of red sliding down the leg of the wooden chair. He leaned forward and placed his hands on Alfred's shoulders, trying to cease the shaking that was causing more physical discomfort. "There, there. No crocodile tears now. Your only fault is that you're human."

Alfred swallowed thickly and looked directly into Arthur's eyes, a string being plucked ever so suddenly, like a bolt of lightning inside his body, when Arthur saw it resting in the striking depths of blue. That expression from his first moment meeting Alfred – the spark was still there, hidden under all the filth of Hell. It made his own skin tingle.

"Y-you get why I had to make it b-better, don't you? You get it."

"I do," Arthur muttered.

He did get it; the all consuming guilt that Alfred felt. He would just never understand that kind of kindness. And sometimes, on the days when he would visit this peculiar boy wrapped up in mystery, he would get a small inkling that he someday wished he really, really could. Something like that was unfathomable, however, and Arthur had no choice but to smile to himself and lament that as his one and only fault.

* * *

At first the breaks to Alfred's room were simply to indulge in a little guilty curiosity. Alfred was a complex boy with enough obscurity to write a series of mystery novels. He cried and begged and bled like everyone else, but the way he went about it had a sharper edge. He didn't disgust Arthur with his tears or his words. If he puked of soiled himself on any of these brutal visits, Arthur would treat it as another favor and clean it up with gentle soothing. Some days Alfred would ask him about it, and Arthur would just smile and say he was practicing.

"Do I sound genuine?" he would inquire. Alfred would always look away, seeming a bit heartbroken.

But as the trips accumulated into a ritualistic necessity in his life, Arthur began to quietly fret to himself when alone in his home or on his way to his office. Talking to Alfred about his mundane life with charities and school and his brother, some of his do-gooder attitude making Arthur feel a bit ill, was making him . . . soft. He felt it. He knew he was being infected with this virus.

Lucifer, he was starting to _care_.

Alfred's moans and hurts and sobs were less and less pleasing as time ticked on. Arthur found himself frowning more and more often when he thought about Alfred tied to that chair, months of torture under his belt with many more to go. When a youth soul ventured into his office and looked at him with an expression Alfred adjourned one evening when Arthur tended to the bruising on his wrists, Arthur hesitated and frowned. He drew the line at frowning.

This was starting to become an issue in his everyday life! Arthur prided himself on his job, and if he couldn't keep up with his greetings and manners, then how was he supposed to maintain a position as The Greeter in the long run? It was already an issue walking out of the lobby every evening to see Francis giving him a disapproving glance.

And yet Arthur continued to see Alfred. He was frustrated with himself, but he could not bring himself to stop talking to that enigma. Alfred eluded him, just beyond his grasp. He needed to figure out this riddle.

"Good evening, Arthur," Melissa greeted as Arthur locked his office. He glanced over his shoulder to see the woman smiling at him, carrying more stickers in her hands. He nodded, and if he had been wearing a hat, he surely would have tipped it.

"Good evening, Melissa. Going home for the day?" he asked, walking by her.

"I wish. There is still so much to do. I'm surprised to see you leaving so frequently. I remember a time when you'd seldom leave that room," she joked, but it made something alarming give a small, cold buzz in his chest. He maintained his polite grin, however, and headed towards the elevator.

"It appears even I have a limit with souls."

"Don't we all," she chuckled. "See you tomorrow evening."

Arthur turned his back to her, only feeling relieved when he heard the clacking of her heels fading. He let out a breath and ran a hand through his tussled locks, pressing the button on the golden lift and waiting for the doors to open.

"It's not like you're doing anything bad," Arthur muttered to himself, feeling irritated that he even attempted to rationalize this to himself. "And even if you were, bad is good, so to speak. Caught on a technicality, old chap." Green eyes peered up with the door chimed and opened, revealing his best friend in the corner, quietly brooding like always. Arthur grinned.

"Good evening, mate. How has your day been going?" he asked, stepping beside him and hitting the button for the sixth floor. The attendant's inky eyes followed his movement, squinting ever so slightly before staring blankly back at the wall. "Still ever the chatterer, I see."

The lift rumbled with a low purr before starting its ascent, the air being permeated with silence once more, aside from the dreadful piano music drifting out of the speakers. Arthur settled back on his heels and waited to arrive at his destination, but the box came to a stop at the lobby, the doors clicking open to let in more people.

Arthur gave a smile and a nod to the men and women dressed in all white or blue or pink, depending on what floor they worked on, but halted when catching the eyes of a rather tall individual in a pale shade of purple. He looked up to meet the crinkled eyes of Ivan, a character he did not enjoy the company of even on a good day.

Ivan smiled and Arthur rivaled it with his own plastic charade.

"Good evening, Ivan. How are you today?" Arthur asked on obligation alone when the brute took the empty space next to him. His limbs felt agitated and antsy, though he did not let any of that show. Let it be known if Arthur ever accomplished anything in his existence it would be tenacity in the face of adversity.

"I am well, comrade! A fine day to work, would you not agree?" Ivan queried, running his large hands over his shirt where his name was stitched into the pastel fabric. Arthur's eyes lingered on the uniform, knowing where his destination would be today. Purple was the color of many floors, but this particular shade was for the first through fifty. It would've been a lie if Arthur said his heart wasn't pumping just a little bit harder under his skin.

He grinned. "Simply excellent."

"If you do not mind me asking this, I am finding myself wondering where you are going. You do not venture from your little cave to my terrain very often," Ivan commented when the quiet dragged on too long for his taste. He glanced down at the shorter male, a hint of mischief dwelling below the surface that Arthur did not take well to. The giant was toying with him.

"I was told to check on a soul," he stated simply, being as vague on this subject as possible.

"Oh?" Ivan's tone reeked of intrigue. "Who would ask that of a simple soul greeter?"

Arthur's smile became tight. "The Deep, of course," he responded, causing the other male to become silent. It was a blatant lie, and even the mere mention of it in false passing could have unspeakable repercussions, but Arthur could not take it back now that it was out in the air. There was only one individual who could order something so high on the chain, though the likelihood of receiving a call on the black phones sprinkled about the building was unlikely. One would have a better chance getting a call from Heaven to play tennis with Jesus Christ of all people than being on the receiving end of the one-number programmed black phone.

The Deep, essentially the lifeblood of Hell, would never call Arthur. He was grateful they never had reason to. Well, until now, of course.

"Sounds serious," Ivan muttered, his low voice ringing with doubt. Arthur did not waver.

"Perhaps. I'm not at liberty to discuss these matters with a simple torture assistant," he said, jabbing at the pale man as he had done to him a moment ago. Ivan all but beamed.

"I do not remember asking, though it is thoughtful of you to follow orders to the lengths you do. We are all grateful to have people who put this enterprise at their top priority." Ivan let his fingers dance over the hem of his scarf, watching two women exit the elevator on the fifth floor, pushing a small cart with cups of heated oil. The doors shut once more and his voice dropped to a hushed tone. "Luckily I am one of those people as well."

Arthur's eyes darted to Ivan, carefully digesting his words. Ivan looked down at Arthur behind lidded eyes. "Carrying out sentencing to the best of my ability is what makes me valuable, even if I am just a simple torture assistant, do you not think so?"

Arthur's stare became hard, muscle in his jaw twitching when his teeth began to press together. He could see exactly why he did not like to be around individuals like Ivan, remembering now why he chose not to apply for a position in the sentencing wards. The lull of the solo music in the elevator was torn with a _ding_ as the doors opened on the sixth floor.

Ivan's eyes did not move from Arthur's when he spoke. "Is this your floor?"

Arthur flexed his fingers at his sides, wetting his lips with his tongue. With a steady breath, he smiled, nodding his head when Ivan's hand held the slab of metal open. "Thank you. That's quite thoughtful." He slowly stepped through the threshold and felt himself finally able to breathe with some distance between him and the large icicle in the lift.

"Have a nice evening," Ivan said, allowing the elevator to shut and his figure to fade away. Arthur stood there staring at the golden doors for a long moment, knowing that this was definitely going to come back and bite him in the ass. He obviously garnered the attention of some local residents, Ivan of all people to be one of them. He had to have known that nonsense about orders from H.Q. were complete rubbish, and then Arthur had to go and _insult_ the man. He was unstable and unpredictable enough as it was!

Surly this would not end well. Arthur squared his shoulders and began heading towards Alfred's room, resigning himself to whatever fate may have in store. After all, even Francis had warned him about messing around with something like this again. It was no fault but his own if he landed in a pool of hot water.

* * *

Out of sheer caution alone, a dark cluster of unease spreading like ants picking at a carcass in his stomach, this feeling that was giving him a great deal of heartburn as well, thank you very much, Arthur avoided the sixth floor for nearly a week. It was no easy feat either, considering how these occasional visits turned daily unconsciously became part of Arthur's routine. And if there was anything anyone knew about Arthur, it was that he was a slave to the familiarity of routine.

However, after the brief exchange with Ivan in the lift and a particularly disappointed look from Francis on his way out of the lobby, Arthur knew it best to play it safe. Arthur, dare he admit it, did take a shine to Alfred over his time in Hell. Not seeing him was causing him a great deal of displeasure. This revelation was a hard spoonful to swallow, given the circumstances of their budding affiliation.

So, he figured if he was going to lay low for the moment, he might as well do something useful. Exactly nine days time later Arthur was practically buzzing when strolling down the hall, intent on finding room 6C. He smiled as he rapped his knuckles against the black metal, fishing out his key and opening the door to become ensconced in darkness.

"Evening, Alfred. I apologize for my sudden absence. Been caught up in work, I'm afraid," Arthur exaggerated, ignoring the knot in his chest when he did so. He did not, however, break his cheerful visage, feeling along the walls.

Arthur was rewarded with silence. He ran his tongue over his teeth, quietly wondering if Alfred was upset with him for his random disappearance. He'd done it once before, early in his visits, and Alfred all but sobbed angry tears with violent, vigorous cursing. Arthur supposed cutting off the only real contact the soul got to stay sane and connected to the world, even if it was nothing but a mere fabrication, was more hurtful than anything the sentencing attendants could inflict.

"I have a pleasant surprise for you, lad. I managed to pull a few strings, for the life of me I haven't a clue why, but I'll call it a momentary lapse in judgment," Arthur continued, feeling around for the goggles Alfred would surely need. He would like to see Alfred's reaction when he told him.

"It turns out I may have fibbed about my connections. Well, not fibbed, per se. Let's just say I had a willingness to underestimate them. What you've been requesting is no easy matter, and could cause a lot of unneeded attention cast in my direction. Nevertheless, it wasn't impossible once applying pressure to the right places."

Arthur slipped on a corner of the tarp under Alfred's chair, scowling briefly before resuming his grin and petting Alfred's matted hair. Perhaps it was time to wash that for him.

Alfred flinched when he touched him, guiding the goggles over Alfred's eyes. A sound that resembled a muffled hiccup caught Arthur's attention and he paused.

"Did they gag you again?" he asked, disliking it when they did that. There really was no point when every spawn of Hell enjoyed those sounds, hardwired into their very beings to be drawn to it, much like someone enjoying a catchy tune on the radio. It was a bonus for working in the Sentencing Wards.

Regardless, Arthur's eyebrows furrowed somewhat when reaching to undo the knot behind Alfred's head but finding none. His fingers prodded, lightly grazing Alfred's cheeks but coming into no contact with the scratch of a worn-down cloth.

"What the devil . . ." Arthur muttered when touching Alfred's lips, immediately making for where he knew the light switch would be. He flicked it, eyes casting towards Alfred and enlarging, his jaw dropping in silent awe.

"_Bloody hell_. That's much too excessive," Arthur spoke on a rushed breath, nearly falling over himself and noisily rummaging around the metal carts to grasp a pair of long, thin scissors.

"Don't move," he ordered, voice flat and tight as he grasped Alfred's face firmly and began to cut the near unyielding string keeping Alfred's lips sewn shut.

A peculiar garble remained trapped in the back of Alfred's throat, Arthur diligently working to release Alfred from silence's hold. When the string was finally cut, Alfred began to breathe through his mouth again, his tongue darting over the irritated flesh of his lips.

"Thank you. Jesus, thanks," Alfred said, sounding relieved, his voice trembling. He craned his face into Arthur's palm, reminding Arthur of great Cerberus as a young tike showing affection. Arthur stayed put, crouching between Alfred's legs and running his fingers uncomfortably over Alfred's cheeks.

As though an ironic turn of events, Alfred began babbling incessant nothingness while Arthur couldn't find his voice. Now that there was light, Arthur could see just how _red _everything was, the tarp underneath his shoes feeling somewhat slippery. Alfred looked like a piece of meat in a butcher shop. The pungent smell of iron that Arthur usually delighted in was making him ill.

Alfred looked rather bruised and sore, body drooping like a wilted flower. In all Alfred's time in Hell, Arthur had never seen Alfred's punishment this . . . severe. Of course he knew Hell was no walk in the park, but this. This torture reeked of something else; of an underlying meaning.

It wasn't until Alfred spoke his name that Arthur's eyes darted up to his, pulled out of his quiet musings. He winced when seeing Alfred's eyes forced shut with some kind of spackle, the blue unable to penetrate through.

"Arthur. That's – that's your name, right? Arthur."

Arthur stared at Alfred, knowing for certain that he never divulged his name, let alone any personal information pertaining to himself.

"Where did you hear that?" asked Arthur slowly, gut clenching as Alfred took a minute to gain his bearings.

"He told me . . . He said to tell Arthur hello," Alfred said, his own eyebrows knitting slightly when Arthur ceased his reassuring petting, removing his hands from Alfred's person altogether. "Arthur?"

This was not good. Oh, this was not good. This was varying levels of terrible. Arthur felt his skin grow cold, stomach roiling. Nostalgia gripped him and he vaguely identified this feeling as the distant echoes of fear. Francis's warning played on a loop in his mind, warning him to stay out of this soul's business. He gripped the armrests and frowned, knowing exactly who did this.

_Don't poke the bear_ was an understatement. The coldness consuming him quickly gave way to the embers of anger as he ran his eyes over Alfred's body. This was Ivan's doing, he was sure of it. If not Ivan himself inflicting this cruelty to taunt Arthur, it was prearranged by him certainly.

"Childish," Arthur scoffed, removing himself from Alfred's presence, mood all but ruined.

As he filled a bucket up with soapy water, Arthur heard Alfred's sneakers shift on the tarp. Frankly, he was astounded they'd lasted this long.

"Arthur," he said.

"Hmm?" Arthur mumbled distractedly. Alfred made no move to continue.

"I was – I'm just . . . tasting it."

"_Tasting it_?" Arthur parroted, raising an impressive eyebrow and meandering across the room to situate himself between Alfred's legs again, sitting on the rickety stool with the bucket by his feet.

Alfred awkwardly spread his legs to accommodate the body residing there, jarring when Arthur touched his face. "Y-yeah . . . I've known you for a while now. I just never knew your name."

"You never asked," Arthur retorted, removing the useless goggles and softly padding at Alfred's eyelids in an attempt to remove the glue there. Being incased inside one's own body, unable to see or speak, was an unspeakable horror for those to experience it. Arthur was just disappointed with how much this seemed to bother him that Alfred had to endure the same practice he'd felt in his past.

"Would you have told me?" Alfred shot back, grimacing under the sudsy liquid.

"Probably not."

"So there was no point."

"Your words, not mine, lad," muttered Arthur, dipping the sponge back in the bucket. "Is this uncomfortable?" he asked after padding at Alfred's face, the blonde male ever so slightly craning his head back under the assault of the sponge. A snort escaped Alfred's nose.

"My whole life is uncomfortable . . ."

Arthur couldn't help but crack a small grin at that. "Life?"

"You know what I mean."

"I suppose I do. But you can't say you expected much better. What you humans interpret Hell as is almost laughable. The concept is unfathomable," Arthur commented, easing one of Alfred's eyes open. The youth's face screwed up, withholding the keen he surely wanted to emit when his eyelashes pulled against each other.

He blinked, his eye red and watering, but recognition settled in his gaze when he looked at Arthur.

"Not until you're here," he admitted.

Arthur made an agreeable _hmm_ and averted his gaze, feeling somewhat responsible for Alfred's current state of woes. It was as if he couldn't look him in the eye when knowing that his jibe at Ivan had caused the onslaught of torture in a bizarre domino effect.

"Do you regret it?" he asked, absentmindedly working on the other eye.

"Signing that book?" Arthur nodded. "I . . . don't," he commented after a lengthy beat, his voice thick, clumped together with a surge of powerful emotion. Arthur looked at him, seeing a weight being lifted from Alfred's shoulders with that admission. "As long as Matt's safe, I'm – I can be here."

"You won't be saying that after years of this, boy."

"I'm praying I'll be numb to it by then," Alfred said, a makeshift grin as false as the odds of that happening adjourning his face. Arthur knew that he didn't wish that. To be numb would be to forgo his humanity altogether.

"Prayers don't get through here."

"Then I'll get Matt to do it for me. We've got that connection."

Arthur dipped the sponge back in the water, smiling offhandedly. "Ah, the twin link. Well, all the best to you."

Alfred gave an airy laugh and shut his eye, letting Arthur fix at least one thing on his broken body. He didn't know why Arthur did the things he did, but he didn't complain. From the subjective comments the demonic being kept saying, souls never got visitors, and on the off-chance they did, it was never a good thing. Thinking back on every time Arthur ventured into his room, not once could Alfred recall feeling threatened. That in itself was enough to cause a bolt of sadness inside of him. Alfred gulped and buried that budding seed of optimism.

"What were you saying?" When Arthur got his other eye free Alfred could see through a blurry fog that Arthur was regarding him with confusion. "When you w-walked in?" he continued.

Arthur blinked and sat up straight, hands hovering in front of him, unsure of what to do now that Alfred's eyes were free. He began cleaning the blood and grime from his face.

"Oh, that. It's nothing."

Alfred stared at Arthur, making the blonde flinch and frown.

"Really? Must you always stare? I assume your parents didn't instill manners into you." He sighed, rubbing his wrist against his forehead. "Your brother."

"What about him?" inquired Alfred, a wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows in apprehension.

"He's well; has gone back home, has friends, is going to college. The whole lot. Not a hospital visit since your deal." When Arthur glanced back he stilled, caught up in the gawk on Alfred's face. Alfred blatantly stared, not even bothering to care that Arthur just reprimanded him for the very same thing just moments ago. He opened his mouth and shut it like a trout out of water.

"H-how – how would you know that?" he demanded, pulling forward against the jagged wires keeping him in place on the chair. Arthur's eyes widened slightly in alarm when seeing fresh blood on Alfred's skin. "Did you . . .?" he asked, expression pained and, damnit all, so very _hopeful_.

Arthur nodded. Immediately Alfred averted his eyes, speechless and chest heaving.

"Okay. Okay, yeah. Sure. So Matt's – That's good. He's – he's happy?"

"As happy as one could be when one's brother was struck by the intoxicated path of a rogue Subaru."

"That's fine. As long as he's –" Alfred said, shutting his eyes and collecting himself. When he looked at Arthur, the Greeter had to pause. Despite being in horrible pain, Alfred's spark showed brighter than ever, determination blooming. "Thank you. God, Arthur, thanks. I can't repay you. You're the best."

_Oh, lad, I'm nowhere close_, thought Arthur bitterly, sagging under such a powerful look.

"If you'll belt up about it, that's all I can ask," Arthur muttered, resuming his task of cleaning the boy in front of him more vigorously. Alfred made a few displeased sounds but accepted Arthur's gesture nonetheless.

"C-can you do me one more favor?" Alfred asked, searching for Arthur's eyes. The Greeter tried to avoid his path of sight but crumbled after knowing he would just appear ridiculous sitting so close and staring at Alfred's chest.

"It never ends with you, does it?" Arthur dropped the red sponge in the filthy water and leaned back, eyelids lowered as he considered Alfred carefully. "What is it that you want?"

"I need you to get me something."

Arthur narrowed his eyes suspiciously, a swirling cyclone of caution taking over when Alfred looked at him so seriously.

Arthur sighed heavily.

In for a penny, in for a pound, he reasoned.


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's Notes: _Ughh, this chapter took forever to write. I'm hoping to finish this story in only a couple more chapters, but it keeps fuckin' getting away from me . . . Sorry for any mistakes if there are any. I'm going to go back over this later and triple check, so just bear with it for now.

_~ . ~_

_O Death_

_When God is gone and the Devil takes hold,_  
_ who will have mercy on your soul?_

_Well I am Death, none can excel,_  
_ I'll open the door to heaven or hell._

_ My name is Death and the end is here . . ._

_- _O Death, Jen Titus

_~ . ~_

_I cannot believe I'm doing this. Have I gone completely off my rocker_? Arthur inwardly lamented, his throat tight and palms sweaty. He glanced at the other men and women waiting for the lift to arrive to the basement level, completely oblivious to the discomfort Arthur seemed to be experiencing. Truth be told, he was having second thoughts about this, longingly peering over his shoulder toward his office door.

He'd actually managed to retreat back a step before the elevator opened, jarring him enough to reluctantly step into the box with a grimace. Even though it wasn't directly touching his skin, Alfred's cross necklace was heavy in his breast pocket. Alfred had requested it, much to Arthur's protests. One steady, pleading look and the green-eyed male surrendered. Arthur was absolutely positive now that he was in over his head, if there was any doubt before.

A soft touch to his shoulder caused Arthur to jump, eyes large and alarmed when looking down to see a woman regarding him carefully. "Are you okay, sir? You don't look so well."

He paused, forcing himself to get it together. He wetted his dry lips, feeling parched as his stomach did a disconcerting roll.

"Claustrophobia," he reassured, smiling. She gave a thoughtful pause, removing her hand and making an "Oh" with her mouth, withdrawing.

_Don't humiliate yourself. You've gone through worse, old chap. This is nothing._

Arthur pursed his lips, ignoring the sensation of his bangs starting to stick to his forehead. He quietly dabbed at his face with a handkerchief, shutting his eyes when a particularly strong wave of nausea slammed into him.

The _ding_ of the lift shot Arthur's eyes open when he peered out to be greeted with the lobby. His shoulders sagged.

As more individuals gathered in the lift, Arthur felt himself becoming increasingly panicked, bodies packed like sardines into a closed-off box. He felt both cold and hot at once, fingers pressing against the outline of the cross in his pocket. If anyone knew what he was carrying they would surely fall into a disorderly fit. It was bad enough that he had to be physically _touching_ it.

Arthur shut his eyes once more and tried to breathe evenly, willing his body to last until getting to Alfred's room. By the time he'd arrived on the sixth floor, he was green in the face, eyebrows drawn into a deep V as he leaned against the wall for support.

The wailing of souls was grating on the headache starting to pound into his temples. A woman shrieked when he passed her window, banging on the glass and leaving dark smears in her wake. Normally Arthur would've waved and smiled, but as of right now he couldn't give a rat's ass.

"Oh, shut your filthy trap already," he groaned, briskly bypassing her without a second glance.

He fumbled with his keys, his form bowed heavily on the black door, practically gasping when he burst through. Arthur fell on his face, nose making a sickening crunch before he hurriedly made it to his feet, shutting the door and positively ripping the pocket from his vest, throwing the cross into the blackness.

"Fuck! Get that blasted thing off me," Arthur growled, covering his mouth and forcing down the bile burning his tongue.

"Arthur?" Alfred called, his voice concerned.

"Give me a second, boy," Arthur said, words clipped as he felt along the wall and turned the lights on. Alfred made a sound of discomfort, squeezing his eyes tight in a squint to see Arthur slink over to the sink and cup his hands with water. He splashed his face, hair plastering to his cheeks and clumping his dark eyelashes together.

"Are you alright?" asked Alfred hesitantly, raising his eyebrow when Arthur spit a couple of times. He wiped his mouth with his suit sleeve.

"Brilliant," Arthur deadpanned. Alfred's eyebrows raised higher into his hairline when seeing how sickly and tired Arthur looked.

"What happened to you?"

Arthur chuckled dryly, humorously, before gesturing to the silver cross abandoned by the entrance. "Your charming Bible Thumper insignia."

"You don't like it?" Alfred stopped and bit his lip when Arthur watched him with less than no amusement. "Okay, dumb question. Are you – are you gonna puke?"

"Don't worry about me, lad. I don't see myself tossing my biscuits today. Just don't ask me to touch it again." Arthur glanced at the necklace, dread holding him back with a pinched expression. It was in his nature to get as far as physically possible from that shape, that cross that stood for a world he detested. Being in the same room with it was enough to make his skin crawl. Physically touching it was the stupidest thing he could think to do.

"H-how am I supposed to put it on, then?" Alfred asked, straining forward against the wires tying his wrists to the chair. Arthur cocked his head at the soul, noting how his face was as sweaty and pale as his own must've looked. He wasn't faring well as time went on.

"That is not my conundrum," Arthur said, attempting to look dignified instead of positively disheveled. He wiped his wrist against his bruised nose and narrowed his eyes as it came away red. He was doing a poor job. "I did you your favor and almost got the both of us in unimaginable trouble. I am not going to hold it again."

"_Arthur_," Alfred whined, feet scuttling against the tarp. He sought Arthur's vision but the Greeter kept his gaze averted.

"It's dangerous to wear that in here."

"I know," Alfred breathed, biting at the inside of his cheek to distract him from his racing thoughts and sore limbs. They felt like they were torn apart and badly welded back together over night. "But I still w-want it. C'mon, Arthur. Please."

Arthur scowled, something he didn't like making a habit of. When he sharply glanced at Alfred he could see the surprise on the other boy's face that he wasn't used to it either. Rolling up his sleeves, he strolled quickly over to the cross and took a deep breath.

"Pleading is not an endearing quality, boy."

His fingers curled around the chain of the necklace, but it still didn't do much good. He could feel a phantom sensation pulsing off the cross, striking his body with invisible torrents of sick. It may have all been in his mind, but Arthur's stomach didn't know the difference as it dropped.

He inhaled sharply through his hurting nose, nearly dashing behind Alfred and flinging the chain around his neck, fingers working quickly to get the clasp together. Once it was done Arthur patted Alfred's head twice in reassurance. He went back to the sink and sank to his knees, frowning and pressing his forehead to the cool metal of the wash basin.

"I detest you, I hope you're aware."

After a pause, Alfred chuckled. It was small and weak but it sounded smug enough to cause Arthur's lip to curl upward at one side, barring the fact that Alfred couldn't see it, of course.

"I'm sure you do."

It was slightly less amusing when they _both_ knew it was a lie.

With a last attempt at using cleansing breaths, Arthur forcibly pulled himself together for appearance sake. He stood up, tugging at his collar and smoothing out his suit jacket with two smooth motions. Arthur ran his fingers through his damp bangs and turned around, idly using a rag to clean the remaining blood and sweat from his face. Alfred looked up and blinked.

Arthur smiled.

He placed the rag back into the sink before propping his slightly quivering hands in his pockets, giving Alfred a brisk look over.

"Handsome young thing. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you look a grand deal better," Arthur joked, raising an eyebrow when Alfred actually managed a grin at him. What a deluded boy if he believed his words. Truthfully Arthur was becoming concerned with Alfred's disposition and energy levels recently.

"Matt's at home and I got this back. What more could I ask for?" he said, the tightening of his jaw belying the fact that he was still under great physical strain.

"Any number of things I'm sure." Arthur's eyes flickered to the cross around Alfred's neck. "You do understand that you cannot keep that on you for long."

"Why?"

Arthur swallowed heavily with a smirk. "How do you suppose you'll explain it to the next attendants coming into your room how you retrieved something like that?"

Alfred was silent a moment, looking up at the ceiling. "A friend gave it to me." He jerked, a pained noise pulled from his throat at the action, when Arthur was in front of him in a heartbeat, hand firm on his jaw to hold a very serious gaze hovering in front of him.

"Do you wish us to both endure the unspeakable?" Arthur asked, fingers tight against Alfred's skin. The blonde's eyebrows furrowed, breath an erratic rhythm against Arthur's fingers. "You do not have any friends. You do not see anyone, understand? What I do for you is –"

Arthur straightened, eyes large. Alfred's gaze followed after him, confused.

"You like me," Alfred said when the silence dragged on. He pulled back when Arthur's hold slackened. "R-right. Sorry. You helped me because you feel bad for me. I won't tell. Sorry."

Arthur watched Alfred, something pulsing inconsistently in his chest. It was true, he did like Alfred. Why else would he do so much for a random soul? Pity? Sure, he'd done it once out of pity before and paid greatly for it. But logically he would've learned his lesson from acting on sympathy; something he shouldn't be capable of possessing.

Alfred was different. Alfred wasn't supposed to be in a place like this. Shouldn't be.

"I need to leave."

Alfred's head bobbed up. "What?" He sounded utterly bewildered. It made Arthur smile.

He cupped Alfred's face between his hands and placed his lips lightly to his grimy hair, mentally berating the filth he allowed himself to touch.

"I have something I need to do. Sit tight, mate. I'll be back before someone finds your _delightful_ surprise," he explained, something revolting in his voice when he glanced at the cross one last time. Alfred's eyes were large and mystified when Arthur pulled away, making his way toward the door.

"Wh-where are you going?" he called, desperately not wanting to be left alone in the dark so soon. Arthur's presence was a refreshing change of pace he assumed other souls didn't get. What made him so great?

"That's a secret, lad."

The door shut.

Alfred stared.

Arthur grinned.

* * *

It was a bit frustrating, to say the least, that pieces of Alfred's files were marked over, blacked out with a marker in what was most likely deemed unnecessary information. Arthur disagreed, seeing that spending so much time with the soul that nothing about Alfred's case should've been glossed over. It was unique in its own right.

He spent the evening reading and rereading it, trying to find out more about his circumstances for being here. It seemed the effort was fruitless in the end.

A knock on his door made the Greeter tuck the file away into his briefcase just as the door was opening. A woman peeked her head in, chestnut eyes finding what she was looking for smiling back at her from his desk.

"You have a message, Mr. Kirkland," she informed politely. Arthur rose from his seat and met her in the middle of the room, nodding as she handed him a manila folder.

"Thank you, dear. Can I dare to ask what it is about?" Arthur inquired, knowing that when he usually received mail on the job, the deliverer usually tried to take a peek inside. When her cheeks flushed he knew he was correct.

"It's from Mr. Bonnefoy, sir," she explained. His smile grew a bit tighter before he tucked the object under his arm, guiding her by her elbow to his door.

"Is it now? How charming. Do send him my best." She smiled and excused herself, her heels clicking down the hallway until the door shut, leaving Arthur with nothing but the whirring of his air conditioner. He spared the smallest of glances at the folder and went back his desk. "Junk mail," he muttered.

Nimble fingers pried open the clasp and pulled out a piece of paper, six words written in a font that Arthur had become familiar enough to recognize as Francis' handwriting.

_I need to see you. URGENT._

Despite the ever present smile on his face, Arthur didn't feel an ounce of its authenticity.

"Another thorn in my side. Marvelous."

He ran his fingers gently over his forehead and shut his eyes. It seemed like his work followed him home on the daily now, a small lingering headache accompanying it. This was taking up too much of his time. He did not need another obsession with a damned soul. He couldn't afford it.

Shoving all useless and upsetting information to the back of his mind, Arthur casually let the next soul in, greeting them pleasantly as he was known to do.

"Welcome to Hell. Name, please."

* * *

"Mon cher, do not take this the wrong way, but you are possibly the most ignorant piece of refuse I have ever had the displeasure of knowing."

"The feeling is mutual."

Francis' eyes were squinted, his lips taut and his expression sour. His voice was calm but low, whispering to Arthur in the empty elevator. Arthur had wondered how the pompous individual had managed to persuade the lift attendant to leave for this conversation to take place. But here he was, standing inside of the velvet draped cube when he had exited his office, intending to head straight up to the sixth level.

"I have stuck my neck out for you once before, do you not recall?" Francis asked, his voice serious, nostalgic.

"Of course. Although I haven't the faintest idea why," responded Arthur, leaning his shoulders against one of the walls, eyeing his companion in a sense of impatience. Francis made a noise of frustration.

"I do not know why you continue to ignore me, mon frère. All I am doing is trying to keep you out of trouble. You might be a pain in my derriere, but we do have enough history where this will cause me to lose some sleep."

Arthur looked up. The admission coming from Francis was a bit out of the blue. He hadn't expected him to admit to such a thing.

"You know as well as I that you don't sleep."

Francis simply sighed, the sound heavy and exhausted.

"Look, I don't know what to tell you. The idea of risking what you are for a meager soul is just," he stopped when green eyes narrowed, continuing with a gentler approach, "baffling to me. However, I still feel inclined to tell you that there has been a complaint." Francis' voice took on a gravely edge when lowered to a murmur. His lips quirked up at the corner when he noticed Arthur become alert. He had his full attention.

"What about?"

"About you – Well, in so many words. There was an anonymous complaint at the front desk yesterday. It was vague and had something to do with staff violating their privileges, but you and I both understand who that's directed toward," Francis said, hoping to get his point across. He didn't mention the part about abusing the building's keys or two-time offenders. If he could put this spark out before it turned ablaze, then he wouldn't need to remind Arthur of the risks once more.

"I'm very careful about this," Arthur finally spoke.

Francis scoffed. "Apparently not. How often do you visit him?"

Arthur ran his fingers gently down his tie and cocked his head. "Daily, give or take." He chuckled when Francis sputtered, the spectacle a rare treat from the ever suave blonde.

"Is that where you're going now?" When Arthur continued to grin, Francis pressed his fingers to his temple. "You are much too suspicious. No wonder you've been found out."

"And holding the elevator here isn't suspicious activity? Let's face it, mate, you've dragged yourself in just as deeply as I am." Arthur saw the etches of horror blur on Francis' face, realizing this. He chose his next words carefully, to lessen the blow that if Arthur was punished – which he knew he would be – Francis most likely would get some of the backlash. He ignored the pang of guilt that struck him, knowing that this man was just trying to keep him out of trouble and because of this was now going to be rebuked for it.

"You may as well meet him. Get to know the reason you'll be walking that '_green mile_' right along with me," Arthur said.

Francis was hesitant a moment before he caved, muttering something wicked under his breath, no question that it was directed at Arthur. The Greeter grinned and stepped up on the ladder, finding the proper button and pressing it. When he stepped down Francis was frowning at him.

"Don't look too excited. You're going to hurt your face."

* * *

When Arthur opened the black slab of metal, he hadn't been expecting to hear a steady stream of words most certainly organized in the form of a prayer. He could sense Francis go rigid beside him, quickly hurrying into the room where Alfred had his head down and his eyes closed.

"Alfred –" he started, halting briefly as the words prickled at his skin.

". . . and stay with me here, God, stay with me. Don't leave me alone in the dark, not by myself, please, Lord."

"Would you shut him up?" Francis urgently requested, looking ill.

"What did I tell you about praying?" Arthur said, moving closer.

Alfred peered up at the sound of footsteps, eyes wide when he noticed Arthur a breath away, a pinched smile on his lips. "Christ, when did you come in?" he blurted.

Arthur jerked, but his grin fluidly smoothed out and he carded his fingers through Alfred's dirty hair. "Lad, your mouth is as filthy as your hair."

Alfred leaned into Arthur's touch instinctively, wishing he could just have access to his arms to indulge in the full effect of the much needed human contact. He glanced over the civil servant's shoulder a moment later to see another male staring at the spectacle. Arthur noticed Alfred's silence – aside from his usual ragged breathing – and trailed after his gaze to Francis, who hadn't moved an inch from the doorway. The blonde's dark eyebrows were knitted in concern as his features took on a grim note.

"Oh, mon frère. I didn't know you had it this bad."

Arthur smiled, not moving his hand only out of pure stubbornness. "You don't know what you're speaking about."

"You actually touch him?"

"What's he talking about, Arthur?" Alfred asked, angling his head carefully to see the smiling Greeter's cheeks strain.

"And this? Arthur, what was he saying?" Francis questioned, gesturing with his hand to Alfred with a hushed voice.

"I told him to cease his prayers –"

"Is that a _cross_?"

Alfred winced when Arthur's fingers curled uncomfortably in the mats of hair at the top of his head. His pulse stuttered when Arthur remained silent. What did he do exactly outside of this room, and why was this man here to look at him like an animal in a cage?

"Where did he get that? He can't have that in here," Francis said, overlooking Alfred completely, and finally taking a step forward, his face chalky and disturbed. "You are in much this deeper than I assumed – than the last time. Mon frère, this is serious."

"Who are you?"

Arthur and Francis glanced at Alfred, the boy obviously having a hard time following this conversation. Francis brushed down his finely pressed shirt and composed himself. "Francis," he said, smiling pleasantly.

Alfred's nose crinkled. "I didn't ask you for your name."

Arthur snickered, casting the unamused Frenchman a Cheshire cat grin before trotting toward the sink and rinsing his hand off.

"I am your . . . _ nanny's_ friend."

"Arthur has friends?"

"We use that term quite loosely," Arthur piped in, propping his hip against the sink, fingers curling around the lip of metal. "You could say he's like a brother, not that I would like a brother."

"Let's just say I keep his best interests in mind," Francis continued, allowing himself some time to fully consider Alfred. He was bruised, and the flakes of browning blood the color of rust peppered his grimy skin, but he still managed to hide most of his aches through a perpetually clenched jaw, uncontrolled breathing, and the occasional body spasm. He came to the conclusion a long time ago that souls became better at dealing with their sentences as time went on. And the life in his eyes hovering behind the veil of sadness and pain was enough to wonder at.

Francis could see the appeal with Arthur seeming so drawn to him. Well, he could see it to a point. Alfred was still a damned soul and Francis had too much dignity and self-respect to fraternize with souls.

"A-and those are?" Alfred huffed.

Francis flipped a strand of hair out of his face. "To keep him out of this room."

Alfred felt a knot tying in his throat, cold flashes of panic shooting up from his gut. He couldn't be in here alone. Without Arthur he would surely lose his mind. Alfred's eyes darted to where Arthur was standing, but the Greeter didn't look ruffled at all, his languid smile still in place. Alfred returned his gaze to Francis, and with a few composed inhales, he briskly scowled at him. Francis raised his eyebrows, looking to Arthur for an explanation. Arthur laughed.

"Cheeky little blighter, isn't he?"

"Your taste is impeccable as always," Francis deadpanned. "For your sake, I hope he's worth the trouble."

"What trouble?" asked Alfred, feet pushing absentmindedly at the tarp. Francis sighed and folded his arms, eyeing Alfred carefully.

"You are going to send him to the equivalent of the electric chair," Francis explained. Alfred's eyes widened, his shoes ceasing their erratic movements. A muscle in his jaw twitched, then they resumed their scuffling.

"Belt up, you daft baboon," Arthur ordered, his words clipped and sharp as knives. Like Alfred needed to feel bad about anything else. He was already carved up every day; he didn't want him living with guilt.

"He has a right to know, doesn't he?" Francis retorted, frowning.

"I said _piss off_."

"I am only trying to help. Why do you have to be so difficult –"

"It wasn't even your business to begin with. I don't know why I bothered to –"

"Yes, you are blameless, as per usual. Arthur never is at fault –"

"You'll get a room like this?" Francis' head shot up and Arthur stopped his prodding at Francis' chest to turn to Alfred, his words breaking through the bickering easily. He was watching them closely, the gears turning behind his pain-addled mind shining through his gaze.

"To a degree," Arthur admitted after a long stretch of quiet, pulling his jacket collar and smoothing out the hem. In all honesty, he hadn't a clue what they would do to him a second time around. Harsher punishment surely awaited him. His job would be stripped away. He would have nothing.

"And i-it'll be my fault," Alfred wheezed, wincing as a wound started acting up. He felt a bead of sweat drip in his eye.

"To a point," Francis said. Arthur shot him an ugly glower but he brushed it off. It was true. When Alfred looked down and concentrated on the outline of his sneakers, Arthur felt his pulse quicken. He was either thinking or distracted by pain. Alfred swallowed convulsively and kept his nerves steeled. He didn't want to be alone, and he'd grown accustomed – no, that wasn't it; he looked forward – to Arthur's visits. He liked Arthur.

But putting him through this? He wouldn't wish this damn black room on anyone.

When his gaze rose back up to the two men across from him, Alfred knew he had to say it. Arthur had called him a saint before. He was no saint, but he did know right from wrong.

"You can have my necklace back now," he muttered, feeling like he was doing something as reckless as signing that stupid book. Arthur's eyebrow lifted. "Sorry. I don't want to see you anymore."

Arthur stiffened, and Francis seemed apparently surprised. He glanced at Arthur beside him and noticed the way his fingers twitched at his sides, and the tendons in his neck strain. His smile belied his urge to defy. Who was one soul to tell him what to do? _Rejection is harsh_, Francis surmised.

"That seems a bit melodramatic, lad," Arthur said, his voice even despite his slowly bubbling anger. Cast aside because of guilt? He had done _everything_ Alfred wanted and now he was going to get kicked to the curb over some moronic words from Francis?

"Take it and get out. I'm serious," Alfred repeated.

"Or you'll do what, exactly?" Arthur asked. Alfred struggled to come up with a response. It wasn't like he could shove him out the door. It hit him just then and he rutted his chin up defiantly in the air.

"I'll pray."

Francis frowned, taking a step closer to the door. He shot Arthur a disapproving glance. Those words were bad to speak in here. It caused a lot of unnecessary attention. "Arthur," he spoke, urging his companion to follow. Arthur didn't take his eyes off of Alfred all the while, making the elder male get a nervous tug inside of him.

"That's not a wise thing to do," Arthur said very calmly. "You may as well paint a bullseye on the door."

"Then get out." Alfred clenched his teeth, willing away the swirling vision in his eyes when his battered side throbbed. _I'd rather go crazy in the dark than let someone else do it, too_.

"I'm quite comfortable," Arthur lied. He could sense Francis' anxiety beside him, knowing this was the most foolish thing to do. But he wasn't going to leave just like that. Alfred had no right to tell him to leave when all he'd done was help him.

"Fine," Alfred huffed, running his tongue over his lips.

And then Arthur's ears were ringing.


	5. Chapter 5

_Author's Notes_: Sorry for the delay. I was in a sort of slump. But then my sister told me a quote from Ernest Hemingway: "Write drunk, edit sober." So I decided to take his advice.

_~ . ~_

_Holy water cannot help you now_

_A thousand armies couldn't keep me out__  
_

_I don't want your money__  
_

_I don't want your crown_

_ See, I've come to burn your kingdom down_

_And no rivers and no lakes can put the fire out_

_ I'm gonna raise the stakes, I'm gonna smoke you out_

- Seven Devils, Florence and the Machine

_~ . ~_

"If you don't shut him up right this instant, mon frère . . ." Francis demanded, quickly backtracking towards the door, his fingers gripping the doorknob tightly. Arthur squinted his eyes as his ears were bombarded with Alfred's prayer. His arms were crossed, his grip firm on his forearms; aside from that, Francis wouldn't have been able to sense his discomfort, though he knew he was just as uncomfortable as he was.

"I don't want to cause problems, Lord. So please, I hope I'm not asking too much, but keep Arthur out of trouble. It's too late for me, but both of them don't have to suffer, too."

Arthur frowned.

"_Arthur_," Francis hissed, his stomach rolling. Certain words were obviously trigger words in the Sentencing Ward. If spoken too often, the staff snuffed them out. None too gently, Francis was aware. He didn't want to be present when that door opened. He didn't know what the attendants would do to him and Arthur, surely knowing how incriminating this looked.

"I can do this on m-my own. As long as I can at least talk to you. God, you wouldn't leave me, would you?" Alfred's voice cracked. His head bowed, his expression desperate. Arthur clicked his tongue against his teeth, frown deepening.

"I'm serious, stop him!" Francis exclaimed, feeling panic bubbling up from the cauldron that was his stomach. He leaned against the door, frustrated that there wasn't a window on it. There was too much unpredictability.

Alfred tucked his chin to his chest, muttering something Arthur could barely make out. But he could still hear it, and it made his teeth grind against each other.

"Don't leave me. God, don't leave me in the dark. Don't leave –"

"Are you _kidding_ me?" Arthur growled, leaving his perch against the sink. His eyes were slits and his crooked smile was unnerving. Francis supposed it was a defense mechanism after the whole ordeal before he became Hell's Greeter. He was never quite right after his own stay in the Sentencing Ward.

"_God_?" Arthur chuckled, the sound disbelieving and manic. Alfred opened his eyes, watching Arthur approach with his arms spread wide. "You're trading me in for _God_? I've been here helping you – talking to you, cleaning you – I risked my own hide to get you that putrid, detestable necklace, and you're going to trade me in for an _invisible man_?"

Arthur placed his hands on Alfred's shoulders, the boy wincing at the harsh grip. Up close he could see the anger and bitterness hidden in Arthur's features. But most of all, he could see the hurt. Alfred blinked stupidly. He didn't know Arthur was capable of feeling pain.

"You are fickle, Alfred," Arthur said quietly through a thin-lipped smile that could've been mistaken for a sneer. Alfred attempted to swallow the sting of Arthur's words, averting his eyes.

"I don't want to put anyone through this," he mumbled. Arthur tilted his head, registering how sweaty and grimy Alfred's skin was under his hands; the way his body quaked and words slurred. "I'm already stuck here, but why would you be? You didn't do anything wrong."

Arthur's fingers tapped absentmindedly against Alfred's shoulders before he grinned uneasily, his smile all teeth.

"I work for Hell. By definition everything I do is wrong, boy."

Alfred stared, his eyes tracing Arthur's face, digesting his words behind a blurred vision and fuzzy consciousness. His side pulsed distractingly each passing second.

"Yes, yes. Everyone is bad, we're all so very sorry. May we please desist this Romeo and Juliet scene and get out of here now?" Francis interjected, snapping his fingers repeatedly and gesturing to the door. Arthur looked at his companion, nervousness and fear seeping from his form. He slowly stood up, removing his hands from Alfred. The boy's eyes followed him, but Arthur noticed how unfocused his gaze was becoming, how pale he looked.

"Believe me, Alfred. If I get caught, I'll deserve every second thereafter," Arthur said seriously, fixing his cuffs.

Alfred frowned at him. He glanced hazily towards Francis, sending the older male a torn expression. Francis merely kept his gaze on Arthur, who had now circled around the chair, resting the palm of his hand softly on Alfred's side. The youth started, a sharp exhale pulled through his teeth.

"This sore?" Arthur murmured close to Alfred's ear. Alfred nodded, shivering as Arthur steeled himself and unclasped the necklace.

"'S been botherin' me on and off all day," Alfred admitted. He smiled weakly, hating each beat throbbing like a bruise under his ribs. "You don't happen to have any ibuprofen, do you?"

"Would you like me to fix it for you?" Arthur asked, grimacing as he placed the cross back into the safety of his vest pocket.

Alfred hesitated a moment, inwardly debating, before he nodded.

"Could you please move this along a little faster?" Francis impatiently urged.

"Take two long breaths when I tell you. Inhale," said Arthur, his hand giving a reassuring squeeze to Alfred's shoulder. Alfred shuddered when he let a gust of air out slowly. "Once more." On his next exhale, Arthur abruptly struck the back of his head. He jerked forward then went slack in the chair.

"Fastest medicine one could apply," Arthur said, smiling a measured smile at Francis as he approached him. "That should give him a few hours of pain-free oblivion."

Francis frowned when Arthur flicked the lights off and they exited. The hall remained empty, thankfully.

"I am not visiting him again," Francis said firmly. Arthur snickered beside him.

"Why not?"

"He's unpredictable!" Francis said, eyes disbelieving as he shook his head. "We are very fortunate that his little Sunday School session didn't alert anyone on this floor."

"Oh, it's not so terrible. No need to blow it out of proportion." Arthur grinned at his him, minding that he was already starting to sweat under his collar. The cross sat heavily against his breast.

"I don't care. I don't want any part in this," Francis explained, tone weary.

"Goodness, you're a broken record."

When they reached the elevator, Francis peered at Arthur in silent curiosity. "What do you plan to do with that anyway? You can't possibly have the patience to carry that up to him every day."

Arthur, whose legs were starting to feel like jelly beneath him, just hummed in thought. "I have a few ideas."

* * *

"I get the feeling that he doesn't like me that much. He was a jerk," Alfred offered with no real humor in his small smile, greeting Arthur the next evening when he visited. Arthur knew from the suggestion that he was referring to Francis. He smiled fondly down at the trembling boy and mussed his hair.

"Ah, Alfred, my boy. You do know how to say all the right things."

Alfred shot him a confused expression before Arthur passed by him and went to compulsively wash his hands at the sink. He lathered his fingers with soap and began a small tune under his breath. Alfred shifted in his seat, but didn't say anymore. Arthur was simply enamored by the erratic melody of Alfred's breaths, matching almost naturally to his murmurs.

"I would not be a sinner, I'll tell you the reason why. 'Cause if my Lord should follow me, I wouldn't be ready to die . . ." Arthur felt his lips quirking up as he shook his head, drying off his hands on the cleanest corner of a towel he could find. When he turned around, Alfred had a low brow and a look of consternation on his face. "I'm sorry, lad. Didn't mean to mock you. What was it we were speaking about?"

Alfred opened his mouth but Arthur beat him to it with a snap of his fingers. "Yes, I remember now. Your dismal impression of that waste of space I brought in to you."

Alfred harrumphed. "I never said I didn't like him," he muttered. "He doesn't like me, though . . ."

Arthur _tsked_, his eyes sparkling. Alfred shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. What was he looking so excited about?

"He doesn't like the _idea_ of you, mate. Though, now that you mention it, Francis doesn't think too highly of souls in the first place, so you may not be too far off the point."

"Th-that's 'cause I'm gonna g-get you in trouble. He's looking out for you," Alfred explained. Arthur shrugged him off, twisting his torso to feel around for the right tool on the table beside him.

"I don't need a babysitter. You, on the other hand," Arthur announced, peering at the blonde rather thoughtfully. He could see the tension bleeding from his body and what he was about to do – what he had decided to do, making up his mind the moment he'd stepped into that elevator with Francis – sent shivers down his spine. It made his toes curl and his insides squirm.

Apparently Alfred wasn't understanding quite yet, because the look he was sending him was rather worried; somewhat frightened, he could say.

Best to get to it, then.

"Aren't you uncomfortable like that?"

Alfred stared at him a long moment before he looked away, clearly flabbergasted. "It's like sitting on a c-cloud."

Arthur felt himself smiling wider at Alfred's blatant sarcasm. "It's been, what would you say, three months since you've been here?"

"Can't remember."

"I'd say about three months. And you haven't been out of that chair since thy moment they sat you down, am I correct?"

Alfred cautiously glanced back at the man standing by the sink with a pair of pliers in hand. He swallowed the lump forming in his throat, the sweat prickling at his grimy hairline. Arthur pushed himself away from the sink and strolled casually towards the soul, twirling the tool in his hands.

"Would you like to stand up?" he asked. Alfred felt his eyes opening as far as they would go, his jaw nearly hitting the floor. He gawked at Arthur, digesting his words slowly. Stand . . . To get out of this chair? Was he implying . . .

"You're joking," he breathed, so quiet that Arthur almost didn't catch it. "I s-s-swear, if you're doing this t-to . . . to . . ." There was a bite to the edge of his tone, something bitter and hopeful blended in that stutter. Fury lurked beneath the dark waters of Alfred's blue eyes. They didn't seem as glassy as they had the first time Arthur had visited him; encapsulated in darkness.

Arthur, as strange as it was, brought light into this boy's world. He was a beacon of some sort. It made him want to laugh.

"Is that a yes?"

"_Arthur_," Alfred gasped, leaning forward against the wire that bound him to that chair. The hair on the back of Arthur's neck stood on end at the sheer desperation and anticipation in Alfred's voice. He was looking at him as though her were the most miserable soul in the universe, but his voice sounded like a praise; as though Arthur held the key to his happiness, no matter how momentary.

Arthur merely nodded, not quite trusting himself to make a comment and ruin whatever spell it was that Alfred kept over him in these vulnerable moments. His resolve stronger, he smiled as politely as he could and bent down behind the boy, grasping the first of many rusty wires.

The sound of the first clip had Alfred sagging in his seat instantly. Arthur thought he resembled a marionette with its strings cut, the more he clipped, because Alfred drooped against that chair.

This was wrong.

Snip.

This was terribly heinous. He could get worse that a room in this ward, for certain.

Snip. Snip.

He would lose everything.

Snip.

Arthur observed his fingers trembling as he clipped the last wire. His throat felt compressed, his lungs heavy, on fire.

He grinned.

This was _invigorating_.

Gently, he eased himself to his feet and tucked the pliers into the back of his pants, smoothing his coat bottom over the hem. Arthur walked in front of Alfred's chair and watched the blonde slowly pull his arms to his front, flexing his fingers with an awestruck expression. This surely was worth a room and then some.

"You can't leave. Lucifer, no. I'd be boiled alive if anyone saw you leave your room. However, I think there's no harm letting you move about your own prison cell. What's the damage in a little movement?"

Alfred traced the shape of his arms, the crevices and dents where this wire – he had come to think of it as part of his own flesh – pressed into him. It felt so foreign to have some mobility back.

"You probably have atrophy in your leg muscles, among other places. You can't walk on your own, but I can assist if you'd like to make it to the wall."

Arthur let his eyes linger, drinking in the sight of Alfred's reactions. It was like watching a child open a present on Christmas day. He never cared for children and certainly not Christmas, but the prospect was the same. And when Alfred finally looked up at Arthur, his eyes so very large and so very wet, well, that was Arthur's own Christmas present.

"Like it, don't you?" Arthur smiled, keeping his nerves in check. Even though Alfred couldn't make it out of his room, if someone were to walk in and see him moving . . .

In a small bout of paranoia, Arthur peered over his shoulder at the closed slab of metal; the only thing keeping them both out of terrible admonishment. He didn't look long, for an insistent tug to his pant leg had him glancing at Alfred. He leaned down and took the blonde's hands in his own.

"What is it, lad?" Arthur teased. "You appear to have seen a gho –" Arthur choked, his lips suddenly covered with a rough, chapped pair. He went rigid, feeling the grime on Alfred's skin against his face, tasting weeks of blood and sourness in Alfred's mouth, feeling the hot tears and rumbling vibrations of his gasping breaths.

"Thank you," Alfred repeated, again and again, against Arthur's mouth, his weak arms clasping as tightly as a newborn baby to his shoulders, long fingers fisting in his hair. He could barely hold himself upright without the wires around him, and his chest heaved against Arthur's, muscles and bones straining to stay upright.

Coming out of his own shocked reverie, Arthur slowly wound his arm around Alfred's back, every distinct bump of his vertebrae prominent under his palm.

"Why do you do that?" Arthur murmured. He winced when Alfred barked a laugh at point blank range, smearing his cheek against Arthur's.

"Do what?"

Arthur searched for the proper words. "Make me into something I'm not," he settled on.

"You do that to yourself, dumbass."

"It's appalling that you call your savior a dumbass," Arthur said, pulling back enough to see Alfred's face properly. Alfred grinned at him as best he could when his sore muscles were starting to throb at him.

"Hugging me hardly makes you my savior."

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "Suit yourself. Sit up on your own." He moved away abruptly and Alfred hissed, falling flat on his face with a pain-garbled moan. Pieces inside Arthur warred whether to be amused or guilty.

_A bit of both_, he concluded and leaned down to help him sit up properly. He forgot how Alfred could cuss like a sailor.

With a few snide remarks from both parties, Arthur managed to hobble Alfred over to a wall, leaning him in the crevice where two sides met. He handed him a musty metal cup of water and let him drink it slowly. Alfred appeared to be the most joyful he'd ever seen him since entering this room. It almost looked more genuine than the awkward conversation about his brother.

Matthew apparently was still top priority for Alfred's smiles.

A echoing pang of envy.

He promptly stomped it out.

When Alfred looked up from the rim of his cup, Arthur had to hesitate, though. There was still confusion mixed in with the relief. Confusion and that never ending pit of nervousness.

"What's the catch?" Alfred asked after a long while. He'd had his fill of water and he was nearly done regaining his breath from his _power walk_. There was nothing more to do than to discuss the elephant in the room.

"Hm?" Well, can't fault him for trying.

Alfred rolled his eyes, his teeth chewing at his lip. Arthur watched intently when he reached his hand up and brushed aside his bangs. The action of Alfred moving was still a little surreal.

"Why let me up? You seemed kinda pissed yesterday . . ."

"I wasn't 'pissed,'" Arthur denied airily. He knew he had been upset with the notion that he was as disposable as a dirty tissue to Alfred, but he had buried that with the rest of his ill feelings of any kind. Who needed those?

Alfred continued to watch him expectantly.

Arthur shrugged noncommittally. "I suppose it's because I realized that I do intend to help you." He glanced at Alfred and felt that tug inside of him again.

"Help me how . . .?" Alfred muttered, not seeming enticed by the idea at all. Well, tough toenails.

"I've been speaking with someone who may be able to sympathize enough with your predicament," Arthur explained, choosing to run his fingers down his tie instead of look at the boy beside him. He could feel Alfred's eyes boring into his face, regardless.

"And?" prompted Alfred.

"They have some _delightful_ nicknames for me."

Alfred didn't budge. Arthur sighed.

"And there may be a way to get you out of this hellhole."

Alfred was silent, setting the tin cup by his side. Arthur cocked his head and finally peered at his companion, watching those gears turn behind his gaze.

"I can leave?" he whispered, yet his features were crinkled up in pain. Arthur raised his eyebrow. That wasn't quite the response he'd expected.

"You aren't going to kiss me again, are you? I don't think I can say excruciatingly thrusting your teeth against mine feels all too wonderful."

"Shut up or I will."

Arthur lowered his eyelids, leaning over and looking up at Alfred. The soul was bent at an arc, brows drawn together in intense thought. His eyes slid to Arthur's face below his.

"Don't say it if there's no chance, Arthur," he said seriously.

Arthur grinned. "Cross my heart and hope to die, mate." He snickered when Alfred put his palm against his face and pushed him away.

"Leaving," Alfred reiterated, tasting the word on his tongue. "Can I go see Matt?" he asked, sitting up and looking oh so very hopeful. Arthur crossed his ankles and stretched his legs out, knocking his feet against Alfred's sneakers on purpose.

"That's not quite the business of these chaps, I'm afraid."

"So, what? I get to go to Heaven or something?"

Arthur smiled wistfully. "Or something."

"And you need me to be able to walk," Alfred concluded, though he didn't sound too confident with his answer.

"It'd be charming if you could. Make my job that much easier," Arthur confirmed, knocking his polished shoes against Alfred's dirty ones again. Alfred gave him a crooked smile that Arthur returned.

"Neat."

"I should hope so."

"You're - you're coming, too, right?" Alfred asked, trying to keep his face straight. Arthur felt that tug again and something in his throat hurt. He didn't know if Alfred would even care too much at the thought of leaving him behind. Sure, to be punished was an idea Alfred seemed to detest. But to actually leave Hell . . .

"Of course," Arthur lied. The hesitation of Alfred's smile was enough to bely that he didn't believe him.

"Good."

Yes. Yes, it was.

"Is your friend going to help?" Alfred asked, unsure of that concept. He could already feel that niggling worry building inside of him with just Arthur involved in this. He wanted to push him away, but it seemed that Arthur was like gum on a shoe. The moron wouldn't leave well enough alone.

Arthur snorted, resting the back of his head against the wall. "I don't think he's cut up to it, honestly. But that's for the best, I surmise."

"What do you mean?"

Arthur shut his eyes, taking a long breath and committing this moment to memory. If things were rough now, there was no telling what tomorrow would bring. With a chuckle and a goal, Arthur let his head roll against the plaster until his was looking directly at Alfred, his hand tangled in his red silk tie. Alfred shuddered at how wicked that smile was.

"Better the devil you know, wouldn't you agree?"

* * *

The song Arthur was sardonically singing while washing his hands was a 1940s song by the _Charioteers_, "Wade in the Water." Their version sounded kind of like a morbid biblical lullaby, but Arthur used it for spite, not authenticity.


End file.
